An Angel; Or, If Not, An Earthly

Faith, Stay Here This Night; They Will Surely Do Us No Harm; You Saw They Speak Us Fair, Give Us Gold; Methinks They Are Such A Gentle Nation That, But For The Mountain Of Mad Flesh That Claims Marriage Of Me, Could Find In My Heart To Stay Here Still And Turn Witch.

A Sad Tale's Best For Winter. I Have One Of Sprites And Goblins.

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!

Pray, Do Not Mock Me. I Am A Very Foolish Fond Old Man, Fourscore And Upward, Not An Hour More Nor Less; And, To Deal Plainly, I Fear I Am Not In My Perfect Mind.

Now See That Noble And Most Sovereign Reason, Like Sweet Bells Jangled, Out Of Tune And Harsh.