O, Call Back Yesterday, Bid Time Return

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.

Greatness, Once Fallen Out With Fortune, Must Fall Out With Men Too.

Under The Greenwood Tree, Who Loves To Lie With Me And Tune His Merry Note, Unto The Sweet Bird's Throat; Come Hither, Come Hither, Come Hither. Here Shall He See No Enemy But Winter And Rough Weather.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Of Anger Constant Spirit, Not Swerving With The Blood, Garnish'd And Deck'd In Modest Compliment, Not Working With The Eye Without The Ear, And But In Purged Judgement Trusting Neither? Such And So Finely Bolted Didst Thou Seem.

I Have Thought Some Of Nature's Journeymen Had Made Men And Not Made Them Well, They Imitated Humanity So Abominably.