Solitude Is Very Sad, Too Much Company

Sin We Have Explain'd Away; Unluckily, The Sinners Stay.

The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon They'll Turn To Ghosts; The Scanty Pears And Apples Hang Russet On The Bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn Late, 'twill Soon Be Winter Now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin Dear! And What Will This Poor Robin Do? For Pinching Days Are Near.

I Believe In Success, And In Comfort No Less I Believe All The Rest Is But Patter.

Round The World And Home Again, That's The Sailor's Way!

Politeness Costs Nothing. Nothing, That Is, To Him That Shows It; But If Often Costs The World Very Dear.