Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound; She feels no biting pang the while she sings, Nor as she turns the giddy wheel around, Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things.

The insatiate itch of scribbling.

Countless the various species of mankind, Countless the shades which sep'rate mind from mind; No general object of desire is known, Each has his will, and each pursues his own.

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night. Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse.

Yes, threadbare seem his songs, to lettered ken - they were worn threadbare next the hearts of men

All this for a song.