They Are But Beggars That Can Count

The World Must Be Peopled!

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put On To Entrap The Wisest.

Why, There's A Wench! Come On, And Kiss Me, Kate.

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.