Sir, no man's enemy, forgiving all But will his negative inversion, be prodigal:
Send to us power and light, a sovereign touch Curing the intolerable neural itch,
The exhaustion of weaning, the liar's quinsy,
And the distortions of ...
O leave this barren spot to me
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree
Though bush or floweret never
My dark unwarming shade below;
To their Excellencies the Lords Justices of Ireland,
The humble petition of Frances Harris,
Who must starve and die a maid if it miscarries;
Humble sheweth, that I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, because I was cold;