What's Done Is Done. The Joy Is

For To Define True Madness, What Is't But To Be Nothing Else But Mad?

How Wayward Is This Foolish Love That, Like A Testy Babe, Will Scratch The Nurse And Presently, All Humble, Kiss The Rod.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

Dost Thou Think, Because Thou Art Virtuous, There Shall Be No More Cakes And Ale?

For Precious Friends Hid In Death's Dateless Night.