All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much

Under The Greenwood Tree, Who Loves To Lie With Me And Tune His Merry Note, Unto The Sweet Bird's Throat; Come Hither, Come Hither, Come Hither. Here Shall He See No Enemy But Winter And Rough Weather.

The People Are The City.

Truly, I Would Not Hang A Dog By My Will, Much More A Man Who Hath Any Honesty In Him.

We Are Oft To Blame In This, - 'tis Too Much Proved, - That With Devotion's Visage, And Pios Action We Do Sugar O'er The Devil Himself.

He That Hath The Steerage Of My Course, Direct My Sail.