To England Will I Steal, And There

I Am Such A Tender Ass, If My Hair Do But Tickle Me, I Must Scratch.

I Do Not Set My Life At A Pin's Fee, And For My Soul, What Can It Do To That, Being A Thing Immortal As Itself?

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

But I Am Constant As The Northern Star, Of Whose True Fixed And Resting Quality There Is No Fellow In The Firmament.

There Was A Star Danced, And Under That Was I Born.