How Is It That The Clouds Still

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.

Small Herbs Have Grace, Great Weeds Do Grow Apace.

A Happy Ending Cannot Come In The Middle Of The Story

Vaulting Ambition, Which O'erleaps Itself And Falls On The Other Side

I That Please Some, Try All, Both Joy And Terror Of Good And Bad, That Makes And Unfolds Error.