And Send Him Many Years Of Sunshine

Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loath To Prove Reason With Them.

Crack'd In Pieces By Malignant Death.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

Then Know, That I Have Little Wealth To Lose. A Man I Am, Crossed With Adversity; My Riches Are These Poor Habiliments, Of Which If You Should Here Disfurnish Me, You Take The Sum And Substance That I Have.

Tax Not So Bad A Voice To Slander Music Any More Than Once.