Those, That With Haste Will Make A

Such Antics Do Not Amount To A Man.

Lawn As White As Driven Snow; Cyprus Black As E'er Was Crow; Gloves As Sweet As Damask Roses.

There Is Little Choice In A Barrel Of Rotten Apples.

On A Day - Alack The Day! - Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair Playing In The Wanton Air

Let Each Man Do His Best.