None Pities Him That Is In The

Let's Live With That Small Pittance Which We Have; Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

Bid Me To Love, And I Will Give A Loving Heart To Thee.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

I Sing Of Brooks, Of Blossoms, Birds, And Bowers: Of April, May, Or June, And July Flowers. I Sing Of Maypoles, Hock-carts, Wassails, Wakes, Of Bridegrooms, Brides, And Of The Bridal Cakes.

Humble We Must Be, If To Heaven We Go; High Is The Roof There, But The Gate Is Low.