My Wits Begin To Turn.

For I Can Raise No Money By Vile Means.

Thou Art A Soul In Bliss; But I Am Bound Upon A Wheel Of Fire; That Mine Own Tears Do Scald Like Molten Lead.

Let There Be Gall Enough In Thy Ink, Though Thou Write With A Goose-pen, No Matter.

In Springtime, The Only Pretty Ring Time Birds Sing, Hey Ding A-ding, A-ding Sweet Lovers Love The Spring—

I Charge Thee, Hence, And Do Not Haunt Me Thus.