The old folk, time's doting chronicles.
In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye
Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
I see a man's life is a tedious one.
I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.