There Is Nothing Serious In

The Little Dogs And All, Tray, Blanch, And Sweetheart-see, They Bark At Me.

I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His Name Is.

I Never See Thy Face But I Think Upon Hell-fire.

There Are Occasions And Causes, Why And Wherefore In All Things.

Thou Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Lov'd, Despis'd! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon.