Oh What Fools We Mortals Are.

Making Night Hideous.

The More Pity, That Fools May Not Speak Wisely What Wise Men Do Foolishly.

Nature Does Require Her Time Of Preservation, Which Perforce, I Her Frail Son Amongst My Brethren Mortal, Must Give My Attendance To.

Two Loves I Have, Of Comfort And Despair, Which Like Two Spirits Do Suggest Me Still: The Better Angel Is A Man Right Fair, The Worser Spirit A Woman Coloured Ill.

Now, My Masters, Happy Man Be His Dole, Say I; Every Man To His Business.