The Hand Of Little Employment Hath The

Some Innocents 'scape Not The Thunderbolt.

Thy Best Of Rest Is Sleep, And That Thou Oft Provok'st; Yet Grossly Fear'st Thy Death, Which Is No More.

Golden Lads And Girls All Must As Chimney Sweepers Come To Dust.

Love Asks Me No Questions, And Gives Me Endless Support.

My Cake Is Dough, But I'll In Among The Rest, Out Of Hope Of All But My Share Of The Feast.