Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To

I Am Indeed, Sir, A Surgeon To Old Shoes; When They Are In Great Danger I Recover Them.

Is Twenty Hundred Kisses Such A Trouble?

Mean And Mighty, Rotting Together, Have One Dust.

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.

I Am Afeard There Are Few Die Well That Die In Battle, For How Can They Charitably Dispose Of Anything When Blood Is Their Argument?