Gather Ye Rosebuds, While Ye May.

In Things A Moderation Keep; Kings Ought To Shear, Not Skin, Their Sheep.

Some Asked Me Where The Rubies Grew, And Nothing I Did Say; But With My Finger Pointed To The Lips Of Julia.

Here A Pretty Baby Lies Sung Asleep With Lullabies: Pray Be Silent, And Not Stirre The Easie Earth That Covers Her.

My Soul I'll Pour Into Thee.

Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.