The Good I Stand On Is My

All The Perfumes Of Arabia Will Not Sweeten This Little Hand! Oh, Oh, Oh!

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

We Cannot Fight For Love, As Men May Do; We Shou'd Be Woo'd, And Were Not Made To Woo

Now, My Masters, Happy Man Be His Dole, Say I; Every Man To His Business.

I Told You, Sir, They Were Red-hot With Drinking; So Full Of Valor That They Smote The Air, For Breathing In Their Faces, Beat The Ground For Kissing Of Their Feet.