The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow

What Say You To A Piece Of Beef And Mustard?

Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sell Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy?

Foul Fiend Of France And Hag Of All Despite, Encompassed With Thy Lustful Paramours, Becomes It Thee To Taunt His Valiant Age And Twit With Cowardice A Man Half Dead?

The Summer's Flower Is To The Summer Sweet Though To Itself It Only Live And Die

Things At The Worst Will Cease Or Else Climb Upward To What They Were Before.