Death Is The End Of Every Worldly

If Love Be Good, From Whence Cometh My Woe?

Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

And She Was Fair As Is The Rose In May.

Thou Shalt Make Castels Thanne In Spayne And Dreme Of Joye, All But In Vayne.

There's Never A New Fashion But It's Old.