How Soar Sweet Music Is,

The Very Firstlings Of My Heart Shall Be The Firstlings Of My Hand.

Those, That With Haste Will Make A Mighty Fire, Begin It With Weak Straws.

Captain Of Our Fairy Band, Helena Is Here At Hand, And The Youth, Mistook By Me, Pleading For A Lover's Fee. Shall We Their Fond Pageant See? Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

Gloucester: Yet So Much Is My Poverty Of Spirit, So Mighty And So Many My Defects, As I Had Rather Hide Me From My Greatness, Being A Bark To Brook No Mighty Sea, Than In My Greatness Covet To Be Hid, And In The Vapour Of My Glory Smother'd. But God Be Thanked. . . .

He That Dies This Year Is Quit For The Next.