Happy Thou Art Not; For What Thou

Thanks To Men Of Noble Minds, Is Honorable Meed.

Look On Beauty, And You Shall See 'tis Purchased By The Weight; Which Therein Works A Miracle In Nature, Making Them Lightest That Wear Most Of It: So Are Those Crisped Snaky Golden Locks Which Make Such Wanton Gambols With The Wind Upon Supposed Fairness, Often Known To Be The Dowry Of A Second Head, The Skull That Bred Them In The Sepulchre.

There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou Behold'st But In His Motion Like An Angel Sings.

Appetite, A Universal Wolf.

I Would That I Were Low Laid In My Grave. I Am Not Worth This Coil That's Made For Me.