From Kings To Cobblers 'tis The Same;

The Careful Insect 'midst His Works I View, Now From The Flowers Exhaust The Fragrant Dew, With Golden Treasures Load His Little Thighs, And Steer His Distant Journey Through The Skies.

Who Talks Much, Must Talk In Vain.

Beasts Kill For Hunger, Men For Pay.

If With Me You'd Fondly Stray Over The Hills And Far Away.

You Can Only Be Called A Hypocrite If You Judge Others First.