There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To

Good Lord, For Alliance! Thus Goes Every One To The World But I, And I Am Sunburnt; I May Sit In A Corner And Cry Heigh-ho For A Husband!

It Provokes The Desire, But It Takes Away The Performance

No Longer Mourn For Me When I Am Dead Than You Shall Hear The Surly Sullen Bell Give Warning To The World That I Am Fled From This Vile World, With Vilest Worms To Dwell.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.

Aand In The End, Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else But That I Was A Journeyman To Grief?