O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

He Is Winding The Watch Of His Wit; By And By It Will Strike.

Short Summers Lightly Have A Forward Spring.

A Hand As Fruitful As The Land That Feeds Us; His Dew Falls Everywhere.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!