Praise Us As We Are Tasted, Allow

By My Troth, I Care Not; A Man Can Die But Once; We Owe God A Death And Let It Go Which Way It Will He That Dies This Year Is Quit For The Next

There's A Divinity That Shapes Our Ends, Rough-hew Them How We Will.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

Be Collected. No More Amazement. Tell Your Piteous Heart There's No Harm Done.

Your Tale, Sir, Would Cure Deafness.