Music, Moody Food Of Us That Trade

Good Reasons Must Of Force Give Place To Better.

You Lack The Season Of All Natures, Sleep.

How Quickly Nature Falls Into Revolt When Gold Becomes Her Object! For This The Foolish Over-careful Fathers Have Broke Their Sleep With Thoughts, Their Brains With Care, Their Bones With Industry.

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.

I Am Not Of That Feather, To Shake Off My Friend When He Must Need Me