The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing.

Not All The Water In The Rough Rude Sea Can Wash The Balm From An Anointed King.

Foul Fiend Of France And Hag Of All Despite, Encompassed With Thy Lustful Paramours, Becomes It Thee To Taunt His Valiant Age And Twit With Cowardice A Man Half Dead?

Under The Greenwood Tree, Who Loves To Lie With Me And Tune His Merry Note, Unto The Sweet Bird's Throat; Come Hither, Come Hither, Come Hither. Here Shall He See No Enemy But Winter And Rough Weather.

That Man That Hath A Tongue, I Say Is No Man, If With His Tongue He Cannot Win A Woman.

Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers Are Unwrung.