This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My

You Great Benefactors, Sprinkle Our Society With Thankfulness. For Your Own Gifts, Make Yourselves Praised.

No Metal Can--no, Not The Hangman's Axe--bear Half The Keenness Of Thy Sharp Envy.

Help, Master, Help! Here's A Fish Hangs In The Net, Like A Poor Man's Right In The Law; 'twill Hardly Come Out.

...vaulted With Such Ease Into His Seat, As If An Angel Dropp'd Down From The Clouds, To Turn And Wind A Fiery Pegasus, And Witch The World With Noble Horsemanship.

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.