Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make

Instead Of Weeping When A Tragedy Occurs In A Songbird's Life, It Sings Away Its Grief. I Believe We Could Well Follow The Pattern Of Our Feathered Friends.

But When I Came, Alas, To Wive, With Hey, Ho, The Wind And The Rain, By Swaggering Could I Never Thrive, For The Rain It Raineth Every Day.

All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much Fast.

Those That Much Covet Are With Gain So Fond, For What They Have Not, That Which They Possess They Scatter And Unloose It From Their Bond, And So, By Hoping More, They Have But Less; Or, Gaining More, The Profit Of Excess Is But To Surfeit, And Such Griefs Sustain, That They Prove Bankrupt In This Poor-rich Gain.

Great Men May Jest With Saints; 'tis Wit In Them; But, In The Less Foul Profanation.