Who Is It That Can Tell Me

If You Love An Addle Egg As Well As You Love An Idle Head, You Would Eat Chickens I' Th' Shell.

He Is Dead And Gone, Lady, He Is Dead And Gone; At His Head A Grass-green Turf, At His Heels A Stone.

Now All The Youth Of England Are On Fire, And Silken Dalliance In The Wardrobe Lies; Now Thrive The Armorers, And Honor's Thought Reigns Solely In The Breast Of Every Man.

Death Is My Son-in-law. Death Is My Heir. My Daughter He Hath Wedded. I Will Die, And Leave Him All. Life, Living, All Is Death’s.

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.