I'll Say She Looks As Clear As

And Oftentimes, To Win Us To Our Harm, The Instruments Of Darkness Tell Us Truths, Win Us With Honest Trifles, To Betray's In Deepest Consequence

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.

He Took The Bride About The Neck And Kissed Her Lips With Such A Clamorous Smack That At The Parting All The Church Did Echo.

Ask God For Temp'rance. That's Th' Appliance Only Which Your Disease Requires.

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!