The Soul Of This Man

If I May Trust The Flattering Truth Of Sleep, My Dreams Presage Some Joyful News At Hand. My Bosom's Lord Sits Lightly In His Throne, And All This Day An Unaccustomed Spirit Lifts Me Above The Ground With Cheerful Thoughts.

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

All That Glitters Is Not Gold; Often Have You Heard That Told: Many A Man His Life Has Sold But My Outside To Behold: Gilded Tombs Do Worms Enfold Had You Been As Wise As Bold, Your In Limbs, In Judgment Old, Your Answer Had Not Been In'scroll'd Fare You Well: Your Suit Is Cold.' Cold, Indeed, And Labour Lost: Then, Farewell, Heat And Welcome, Frost!

You Shall More Command With Years Than With Your Weapons.

And Will He Not Come Again? And Will He Not Come Again? No, No, He Is Dead. Go To Thy Deathbed. He Never Will Come Again.