Time, That Takes Survey Of All The

Conceit, More Rich In Matter Than In Words, Brags Of His Substance, Not Of Ornament: They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth; But My True Love Is Grown To Such Excess, I Cannot Sum Up Half My Sum Of Wealth.

Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper, And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth.... [w]hat Can We Bequeath, Save Our Deposed Bodies To The Ground?... [n]othing Can We Call Our Own, But Death... [l]et Us Sit Upon The Ground, And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings: - How Some Have Been Depos'd, Some Slain In War; Some Haunted By The Ghosts They Have Depos'd.

It Was A Lover And His Lass, With A Hey, And A Ho, And A Hey Nonino, That O'er The Green Corn-field Did Pass, In The Spring Time, The Only Pretty Ring Time, When Birds Do Sing, Hey Ding A Ding, Ding; Sweet Lovers Love The Spring.

O You Beast! I'll So Maul You And Your Toasting-iron, That You Shall Think The Devil Is Come From Hell.

Men That Make Envy And Crooked Malice Nourishment, Dare Bite The Best.