Of All The Flowers, Me Thinks A

Weariness Can Snore Upon The Flint When Resting Sloth Finds The Down Pillow Hard.

The Fortune Of Us That Are The Moon's Men Doth Ebb And Flow Like The Sea, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By The Moon.

Last Scene Of All That Ends This Strange, Eventful History, Is Second Childishness And Mere Oblivion. I Am Sans Teeth, Sans Eyes, Sans Taste, Sans Everything.

Have I Thought Long To See This Morning’s Face, And Doth It Give Me Such A Sight As This?

Would I Were In An Alehouse In London.