I Wish My Horse Had

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine, In This I Bury All Unkindness.

I Can Counterfeit The Deep Tragedian; Speak And Look Back, And Pry On Every Side, Tremble And Start, At Wagging Of A Straw, Intending Deep Suspicion.

What's To Come Is Still Unsure: In Delay There Lies No Plenty; Then Come Kiss Me, Sweet And Twenty, Youth's A Stuff Will Not Endure.

God Defend Me From That Welsh Fairy, Lest He Transform Me To A Piece Of Cheese!

Too Much To Know Is To Know Naught But Fame.