Tired With All These For Restful Death

Foul Deeds Will Rise, Though All The Earth O'erwhelm Them, To Men's Eyes.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

I Hate The Murderer, Love Him Murdered.

In Springtime, The Only Pretty Ring Time Birds Sing, Hey Ding A-ding, A-ding Sweet Lovers Love The Spring—

My Father Compounded With My Mother Under The Dragon's Tail, And My Nativity Was Under Ursa Major, So That It Follows, I Am Roughand Lecherous. Tut, I Should Have Been That I Am, Had The Maidenliest Star In The Firmament Twinkled On My Bastardizing.