For this relief, much thanks
Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.
what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?
He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
They are but beggars that can count their worth.