Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers

He's Mad That Trusts In The Tameness Of A Wolf.

When Daffodils Begin To Peer, With Heigh! The Doxy, Over The Dale, Why, Then Comes In The Sweet O' The Year; For The Red Blood Reigns In The Winter's Pale. The White Sheet Bleaching On The Hedge, With Heigh! The Sweet Birds, O, How They Sing! Doth Set My Pugging Tooth On Edge; For A Quart Of Ale Is A Dish For A King.

Our Purses Shall Be Proud, Our Garments Poor; For 'tis The Mind That Makes The Body Rich

Tis A Blushing Shame-faced Spirit That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom. It Fills A Man Full Of Obstacles. It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That (by Chance) I Found. It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It.

And Oft, My Jealousy Shapes Faults That Are Not.