I Would That I Were Low Laid

All's Well That Ends Well; Still The Fine's The Crown. Whate'er The Course, The End Is The Renown.

You Have Dancing Shoes With Nimble Soles. I Have A Soul Of Lead.

What's To Come Is Still Unsure: In Delay There Lies No Plenty; Then Come Kiss Me, Sweet And Twenty, Youth's A Stuff Will Not Endure.

A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun.

This We Prescribe, Though No Physician; Deep Malice Makes Too Deep Incision; Forget, Forgive; Conclude And Be Agreed; Our Doctors Say This Is No Month To Bleed.