Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night.
read more

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.

I think, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavor,
A wreath--a rank--a throne--a grave--
The read more

I think, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavor,
A wreath--a rank--a throne--a grave--
The world goes round forever;
I think that life is not too long,
And therefore I determine,
That many people read a song,
Who will not read a sermon.

That song, for me, is about drugs and alcohol and loss and love. It's about being proud of who you read more

That song, for me, is about drugs and alcohol and loss and love. It's about being proud of who you are, being proud of your situation and just being stoked that things are always going to get better or always gonna get worse and that's such a great thing. Every day is a new surprise.

Unlike my subject, I will make my song.
It shall be witty, and it shan't be long.

Unlike my subject, I will make my song.
It shall be witty, and it shan't be long.

I can not sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low,
'Tis read more

I can not sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low,
'Tis that I can't remember how
They go.

She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with
pity: and when winter evenings fall early read more

She makes her hand hard with labour, and her heart soft with
pity: and when winter evenings fall early (sitting at her merry
wheel), she sings a defiance to the giddy wheel of
fortune . . . and fears no manner of ill because she means none.

A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let read more

A song of hate is a song of Hell;
Some there be who sing it well.
Let them sing it loud and long,
We lift our hearts in a loftier song:
We life our hearts to Heaven above,
Singing the glory of her we love,
England.

Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.

Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci."