One Sin, I Know, Another Doth Provoke.

An Old Black Ram Is Tupping Your White Ewe

Give Sorrow Words; The Grief That Does Not Speak Knits Up The O-er Wrought Heart And Bids It Break.

I Know A Place Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows.

Let There Be Gall Enough In Thy Ink, Though Thou Write With A Goose-pen, No Matter.

Let Us Our Lives, Our Souls, Our Debts, Our Careful Wives, Our Children, And Our Sins, Lay On The King!