Vile Worm, Thou Wast O'erlook'd Even In

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

Bad Is The Trade That Must Play Fool To Sorrow, Ang'ring Itself And Others.

O God, I Could Be Bound In A Nutshell, And Count Myself A King Of Infinite Space – Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams.

If You Have Tears, Prepare To Shed Them Now.

To Move Wild Laughter In The Throat Of Death? It Cannot Be; It Is Impossible: Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.