The Tongues Of Mocking Wenches Are As

What E'er You Are That In This Desert Inaccessible, Under The Shade Of Melancholy Boughs, Lose And Neglect The Creeping Hours Of Time.

Because It Is A Customary Cross, As Die To Love As Thoughts, And Dreams, And Sighs, Wishes, And Tears, Poor Fancy's Followers.

Vile Worm, Thou Wast O'erlook'd Even In Thy Birth.

Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On A Stalk.

Divers Philosophers Hold That The Lips Is Parcel Of The Mouth.