There Is No Creature Loves Me; And

The Lily I Condemned For Thy Hand, And Buds Of Marjoram Had Stol'n Thy Hair: The Roses Fearfully On Thorns Did Stand, One Blushing Shame, Another White Despair; A Third, Nor Red Nor White, Had Stol'n Of Both And To His Robbery Had Annex'd Thy Breath; But, For His Theft, In Pride Of All His Growth A Vengeful Canker Eat Him Up To Death. More Flowers I Noted, Yet I None Could See But Sweet Or Colour It Had Stol'n From Thee.

Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie, Which We Ascribe To Heaven.

Thus Have I, Wall, My Part Discharged So; And, Being Done, Thus Wall Away Doth Go.

Being Holiday, The Beggar's Shop Is Shut.

Tis An Ill Cook That Cannot Lick His Own Fingers.