I'll Go Find A Shadow, And Sigh

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

For Some Must Watch, While Some Must Sleep So Runs The World Away

O Excellent! I Love Long Life Better Than Figs.

Mean And Mighty, Rotting Together, Have One Dust.

Like A Man Made After Supper Of A Cheese-paring: When A' Was Naked, He Was, For All The World, Like A Forked Radish, With A Head Fantastically Carved Upon It With A Knife.