A Loud Laugh Bespeaks A

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.

If We Shadows Have Offended, Think But This, And All Is Mended, That You Have But Slumbered Here While These Visions Did Appear. And This Weak And Idle Theme, No More Yielding But A Dream, Gentles, Do Not Reprehend: If You Pardon, We Will Mend: And, As I Am An Honest Puck, If We Have Unearned Luck Now To 'scape The Serpent's Tongue, We Will Make Amends Ere Long; Else The Puck A Liar Call; So, Good Night Unto You All. Give Me Your Hands, If We Be Friends, And Robin Shall Restore Amends.

My Cake Is Dough, But I'll In Among The Rest, Out Of Hope Of All But My Share Of The Feast.

We Must Follow, Not Force Providence.

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.