So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying; Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

Men are suspicious; prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.

The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun.

The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.

In things a moderation keep; Kings ought to shear, not skin, their sheep.

Here a pretty Baby lies Sung asleep with Lullabies: Pray be silent, and not stirre The easie earth that covers her.