Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night's herald, shrieks-'tis very late; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest; And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
Is it not strange that sheep's guts could hail souls out of men's bodies?
Good morrow, fair ones; pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?