What's The Newest Grief? Each Minute Tunes

When You Do Dance, I Wish You A Wave O' The Sea, That You Might Ever Do Nothing But That.

There Is A History In All Men's Lives, Figuring The Nature Of The Times Deceased, The Which Observed, A Man May Prophesy, With A Near Aim, Of The Main Chance Of Things As Yet Not Come To Life, Which In Their Seeds And Weak Beginnings Lie Intreasured.

For God's Sake, Let Us Sit Upon The Ground, And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings... All Murdered; For Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King, Keeps Death His Court... And With A Little Pin Bores Through His Castle Wall, And Farewell King!

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.

The Summer's Flow'r Is To The Summer Sweet, Though To Itself It Only Live And Die' But If That Flow'r With Base Infection Meet, The Basest Weed Outbraves His Dignity: For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.