But Like Of Each Thing That In

O Fortune, Fortune! All Men Call Thee Fickle.

Fools Are Not Mad Folks.

Oh! That You Could Turn Your Eyes Towards The Napes Of Your Necks, And Make But An Interior Survey Of Your Good Selves.

And To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For, Out Of Question, You Were Born In A Merry Hour. Beatrice No, Sure, My Lord, My Mother Cried; But Then There Was A Star Danced, And Under That Was I Born.

The Barge She Sat In, Like A Burnish'd Throne, Burnt On The Water.