She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

O, call back yesterday, bid time return

And she's fair I love.

Death is a fearful thing.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.

Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.

If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.