The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

He Is White-livered And Red-faced.

Love Is A Smoke Made With The Fume Of Sighs.

England, Bound In With The Triumphant Sea, Whose Rocky Shore Beats Back The Envious Siege Of Watery Neptune.

My Friends Were Poor, But Honest, So's My Love.

I Love A Ballad But Even Too Well If It Be Doleful Matter Merrily Set Down, Or A Very Pleasant Thing Indeed And Sung Lamentably.