An Old Black Ram Is Tupping Your

And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.

I Am Never Merry When I Hear Sweet Music.

Lay Not That Flattering Unction To Your Soul, That Not Your Trespass But My Madness Speaks.

I Hope To See London Once Ere I Die.

O, Speak Again, Bright Angel! For Thou Art As Glorious To This Night, Being O'er My Head As Is A Winged Messenger Of Heaven