Would I Were In An Alehouse In

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.

Experience Is By Industry Achieved, And Perfected By The Swift Course Of Time.

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.

I Do Profess To Be No Less Than I Seem; To Serve Him Truly That Will Put Me In Trust: To Love Him That Is Honest; To Converse With Him That Is Wise, And Says Little; To Fear Judgment; To Fight When I Cannot Choose; And To Eat No Fish.