True Apothecary Thy Drugs Art Quick

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave My Heart Into My Mouth.

The Earth, That Is Nature's Mother, Is Her Tomb.

Why, All Delights Are Vain; But That Most Vain, Which, With Pain Purchas'd, Doth Inherit Pain.

By My Troth, I Care Not; A Man Can Die But Once; We Owe God A Death And Let It Go Which Way It Will He That Dies This Year Is Quit For The Next