Give Me A Bowl Of

For What I Will, I Will, And There An End.

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

Indeed, Sir, He That Sleeps Feels Not The Toothache; But A Man That Were To Sleep Your Sleep, And A Hangman To Help Him To Bed, I Think He Would Change Places With His Officer; For Look You, Sir, You Know Not Which Way You Shall Go.

It Easeth Some, Though None It Ever Cured, To Think Their Dolour Others Have Endured.

O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell