O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You

Silence Is The Perfect Herald Of Joy.

In Springtime, The Only Pretty Ring Time Birds Sing, Hey Ding A-ding, A-ding Sweet Lovers Love The Spring—

Small Herbs Have Grace, Great Weeds Do Grow Apace.

I Hourly Learn A Doctrine Of Obedience.

I Have Neither The Scholar's Melancholy, Which Is Emulation; Nor The Musician's, Which Is Fantastical; Nor The Courtier's, Which Is Proud; Not The Soldier's Which Is Ambitious; Nor The Lawyer's, Which Is Politic; Nor The Lady's, Which Is Nice; Nor The Lover's, Which Is All These: But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In A Most Humorous Sadness.