I Care Not, A Man Can Die

I'll Follow Thee And Make A Heaven Of Hell, To Die Upon The Hand I Love So Well

He Capers, He Dances, He Has Eyes Of Youth, He Writes Verses, He Speaks Holiday, He Smells April And May.

Diseased Nature Oftentimes Breaks Forth In Strange Eruptions.

I Know A Lady In Venice Would Have Walked Barefoot To Palestine For A Touch Of His Nether Lip

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