My Business Was Great, And In Such

To Sleep Perchance To Dream

Help, Master, Help! Here's A Fish Hangs In The Net, Like A Poor Man's Right In The Law; 'twill Hardly Come Out.

So Curses All Eve's Daughters Of What Complexion Soever.

What Showers Arise, Blown With The Windy Tempest Of My Heart

His Neigh Is Like The Bidding Of A Monarch, And His Countenance Enforces Homage. He Is Indeed A Horse.