Sigh No More Ladies, Sigh No More,

There's Nothing Ill Can Dwell In Such A Temple. If The Ill Spirit Have So Fair A House, Good Things Will Strive To Dwell With't

By Being Seldom Seen, I Could Not Stir But Like A Comet I Was Wondered At.

Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Garments Of Changeable Taffeta, For Thy Mind Is Opal.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears.

The Love Of Wicked Men Converts To Fear; That Fear To Hate, And Hate Turns One Or Both To Worthy Danger And Deserved Death.