Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On

Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

Were Beauty Under Twenty Locks Kept Fast, Yet Love Breaks Through And Picks Them All At Last.

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds, That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief?

How Sharper Than A Serpent's Tooth It Is To Have A Thankless Child!

If Men Could Be Contented To Be What They Are, There Were No Fear In Marriage.