Scorn, At First, Makes After-love

A Young Man Married Is A Man That's Marred.

Zounds! Sir, You Are One Of Those That Will Not Serve God If The Devil Bid You.

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.

Let Us Our Lives, Our Souls, Our Debts, Our Careful Wives, Our Children, And Our Sins, Lay On The King!

For This Relief Much Thanks. 'tis Bitter Cold, And I Am Sick At Heart.