He Was Not So Much Brain As

Thank Me No Thankings, Nor Proud Me No Prouds.

As A Decrepit Father Takes Delight To See His Active Child Do Deeds Of Youth, So I, Made Lame By Fortune's Dearest Spite, Take All My Comfort Of Thy Worth And Truth.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

We Should Hold Day With The Antipodes, If You Would Walk In Absence Of The Sun.

He Makes A July's Day Short As December.