If [god] Send Me No

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

Be Checked For Silence, But Never Taxed For Speech.

Discharge My Followers; Let Them Hence Away, From Richard's Night To Bolingbrooke's Fair Day.

There Are No Tricks In Plain And Simple Faith.

I Have Almost Forgotten The Taste Of Fears: The Time Has Been, My Senses Would Have Cool’d To Hear A Night-shriek; And My Fell Of Hair Would At A Dismal Treatise Rouse And Stir As Life Were In’t: I Have Supt Full With Horrors; Direness, Familiar To My Slaughterous Thoughts, Cannot Once Start Me.