God Defend Me From That Welsh Fairy,

When We Are Born We Cry That We Are Come To This Great Stage Of Fools.

I Could A Tale Unfold Whose Lightest Word Would Harrow Up Thy Soul, Freeze Thy Young Blood, Make Thy Two Eyes Like Stars Start From Their Spheres, Thy Knotted And Combined Locks To Part, And Each Particular Hair To Stand On End Like Quills Upon The Fretful Porpentine. But This Eternal Blazon Must Not Be To Ears Of Flesh And Blood. List, List, O List!

Well, Every One Can Master A Grief But He That Has It.

Woe, Destruction, Ruin, And Decay; The Worst Is Death And Death Will Have His Day.

We Will Have Rings And Things And Fine Array