Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
The Bard. II. 2, Line 9.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
The Bard. II. 3, Line 11.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
The Bard. III. 1, Line 11.
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.