What Ugly Sights Of Death Within Mine

You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

Speak To Me As To Thy Thinkings, As Thou Dost Ruminate, And Give Thy Worst Of Thoughts The Worst Of Words.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herald Of Joy: I Were But Little Happy, If I Could Say How Much. Lady, As You Are Mine, I Am Yours: I Give Away Myself For You And Dote Upon The Exchange.

When That Churl Death My Bones With Dust Shall Cover.

Farewell, My Sister, Fare Thee Well. The Elements Be Kind To Thee, And Make Thy Spirits All Of Comfort: Fare Thee Well.