Death Rock Me Asleep.

And He Goes Through Life, His Mouth Open, And His Mind Closed.

Or Are You Like The Painting Of A Sorrow, A Face Without A Heart?

The Liquid Drops Of Tears That You Have Shed Shall Come Again, Transform'd To Orient Pearl, Advantaging Their Loan With Interest Of Ten Times Double Gain Of Happiness.

There Are A Sort Of Men, Whose Visages Do Cream And Mantle, Like A Standing Pond; And Do A Willful Stillness Entertain, With Purpose To Be Dressed In An Opinion Of Wisdom, Gravity Profound Conceit; As Who Should Say, I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark!

Like A Barber's Chair That Fits All Buttocks.