Give Me My Robe, Put On My

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.

His Jest Will Savour But Of Shallow Wit, When Thousands Weep, More Than Did Laugh At It.

For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lillies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

The Weary Sun Hath Made A Golden Set And By The Bright Tract Of His Fiery Car Gives Token Of A Goodly Day To-morrow.

When We Are Born We Cry That We Are Come To This Great Stage Of Fools.