My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I

Now No Way Can I Stray; Save Back To England, All The World's My Way.

Out, You Tallow-face! You Baggage!

He's Mad That Trusts In The Tameness Of A Wolf.

If I May Trust The Flattering Truth Of Sleep, My Dreams Presage Some Joyful News At Hand. My Bosom's Lord Sits Lightly In His Throne, And All This Day An Unaccustomed Spirit Lifts Me Above The Ground With Cheerful Thoughts.

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?