all your sounds of woe

the dog barks at the crows in the field behind the house

was it all merely much ado about nothing

that summer spent weeping and sunburnt and wondering

naturally the bits of broken wit were exaggerated

i shall not requite thee nor allow myself requited to be

for i killed all of the words of my own eating

whether false dice were masked is no matter now

consign ye so to let me go blithe and bonny

and so shall i do for you to love as a brother

laugh when you are merry, but sigh not so, nor so