If Is A Custom, More

Do Not Speak Like A Death's-head, Do Not Bid Me Remember Mine End.

I Am A Feather For Each Wind That Blows

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.

She Is Your Treasure, She Must Have A Husband; I Must Dance Bare-foot On Her Wedding Day, And, For Your Love To Her, Lead Apes In Hell.

Now, My Masters, Happy Man Be His Dole, Say I; Every Man To His Business.