The Sense Of Death Is

Look, What A Horse Should Have He Did Not Lack, Save A Proud Rider On His Back.

Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

'tis Thought The King Is Dead; We Will Not Stay. The Bay Trees In Our Country Are All Wither'd.

Take You Me For A Sponge?

That Which Hath Made Them Drunk Hath Made Me Bold; What Hath Quenched Them Hath Given Me Fire.