The Sweat Of Industry Would Dry And

Heaven Give You Many, Many Merry Days.

She Marking Them Begins A Wailing Note And Sings Extemporally A Woeful Ditty How Love Makes Young Men Thrall And Old Men Dote How Love Is Wise In Folly, Foolish-witty Her Heavy Anthem Still Concludes In Woe, And Still The Choir Of Echoes Answer So.

First Witch He Knows Thy Thought: Hear His Speech, But Say Thou Nought.

God Defend Me From That Welsh Fairy, Lest He Transform Me To A Piece Of Cheese!

Tis No Sin For A Man To Labor In His Vocation.