France Is A Dog-hole, And It No

Captain Of Our Fairy Band, Helena Is Here At Hand, And The Youth, Mistook By Me, Pleading For A Lover's Fee. Shall We Their Fond Pageant See? Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

Let Them Obey That Knows Not How To Rule.

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

A Sad Tale's Best For Winter. I Have One Of Sprites And Goblins.

Methinks A Father Is At The Nuptial Of His Son A Guest That Best Becomes The Table.