No, No, I Am But Shadow Of

Cursed Be He That Moves My Bones.

Enjoy The Honey-heavy Dew Of Slumber.

For There's No Motion That Tends To Vice In Man, But I Affirm It Is The Woman's Part.

When Daisies Pied And Violets Blue And Lady-smocks All Silver-white And Cuckoo-buds Of Yellow Hue Do Paint The Meadows With Delight, The Cuckoo Then, On Every Tree, Mocks Married Men; For Thus Sings He, Cuckoo; Cuckoo, Cuckoo; O, Word Of Fear, Unpleasing To A Married Ear.

The Foole Doth Thinke He Is Wise, But The Wiseman Knowes Himselfe To Be A Foole.