Luck's A Chance, But Trouble's Sure.

To Be A Textual Critic Requires Aptitude For Thinking And Willingness To Think; And Though It Also Requires Other Things, Those Things Are Supplements And Cannot Be Substitutes. Knowledge Is Good, Method Is Good, But One Thing Beyond All Others Is Necessary; And That Is To Have A Head, Not A Pumpkin, On Your Shoulders And Brains, Not Pudding, In Your Head.

Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff: You Eat Your Victuals Fast Enough; There Can't Be Much Amiss, 'tis Clear, To See The Rate You Drink Your Beer. But Oh, Good Lord, The Verse You Make, It Gives A Chap The Belly-ache. The Cow, The Old Cow, She Is Dead; It Sleeps Well The Horned Head: We Poor Lads, 'tis Our Turn Now To Hear Such Tunes As Killed The Cow. Pretty Friendship 'tis To Rhyme Your Friends To Death Before Their Time. Moping, Melancholy Mad: Come, Pipe A Tune To Dance To, Lad.

Because I Liked You Better Than Suits A Man To Say, It Irked You, And I Promised I'd Throw The Thought Away. To Put The World Between Us We Parted Stiff And Dry: 'farewell,' Said You, 'forget Me.' 'fare Well, I Will,' Said I. If E'er, Where Clover Whitens The Dead Man's Knoll, You Pass, And No Tall Flower To Meet You Starts In The Trefoiled Grass, Halt By The Headstone Shading The Heart You Have Not Stirred, And Say The Lad That Loved You Was One That Kept His Word.

Give Crowns And Pounds And Guineas But Not Your Heart Away; Give Pearls Away And Rubies, But Keep Your Fancy Free.

But If You Ever Come To A Road Where Danger; Or Guilt Or Anguish Or Shame's To Share. Be Good To The Lad Who Loves You True, And The Soul That Was Born To Die For You; And Whistle And I'll Be There.