For Now They Kill Me With A

But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And Life Time's Fool.

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.

The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand Years Old, And In All This Time There Was Not Any Man Died In His Own Person, Videlicet, In A Love-cause.

He Knows What It's Like To Strut And Fret His Hour Upon The Stage And Then Be Heard No More.

Sweets To The Sweet.