And It Is Very Much Lamented,... That

Fear No More The Heat O' Th' Sun Nor The Furious Winters' Rages; Thou Thy Worldly Task Hast Done, Home Art Gone, And Ta'en Thy Wages. Golden Lads And Girls All Must, As Chimney-sweepers, Come To Dust.

The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put On To Entrap The Wisest.

The Latter End Of A Fray, And The Beginning Of A Feast, Fits A Dull Fighter, And A Keen Guest.

That In The Captains But A Choleric Word Which In The Soldier Is Flat Blasphemy.

Hell Is Empty And All The Devils Are Here.