The Small Amount Of Foolery

This Fell Sergeant, Death, Is Strict In His Arrest.

And Makes Me Poor Indeed.

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.

So, Good Night Unto You All. Give Me Your Hands, If We Be Friends, And Robin Shall Restore Amends.

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.