Could Beauty, My Lord, Have Better Commerce

Avaunt, You Cullions!

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.

Every Man Has Business And Desire, Such As It Is.

Alas, How Love Can Trifle With Itself!

Fear No More The Heat O' Th' Sun Nor The Furious Winters' Rages; Thou Thy Worldly Task Hast Done, Home Art Gone, And Ta'en Thy Wages. Golden Lads And Girls All Must, As Chimney-sweepers, Come To Dust.