Good Morning To You, Fair

To Go To Bed After Midnight Is To Go To Bed Betimes

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

Good Lord, For Alliance! Thus Goes Every One To The World But I, And I Am Sunburnt; I May Sit In A Corner And Cry Heigh-ho For A Husband!

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

Jesters Do Oft Prove Prophets.