So Foul And Fair A Day I

Where The Bee Sucks, There Suck I In The Cow-slip's Bell I Lie There I Couch When Owls Do Cry

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.

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

When Love Begins To Sicken And Decay It Uses An Enforced Ceremony.

Love Is A Smoke Made With The Fume Of Sighs.