Welcome, Maids Of Honor, You Doe Bring

Seldom Comes Glory Till A Man Be Dead.

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.

Tis Not The Food, But The Content, That Makes The Table's Merriment.

A Careless Shoe String, In Whose Tie I See A Wilde Civility.

The First Act's Doubtful, But We Say, It Is The Last Commends The Play.