Ah, What A Sign It Is Of

But When I Came, Alas, To Wive, With Hey, Ho, The Wind And The Rain, By Swaggering Could I Never Thrive, For The Rain It Raineth Every Day.

So Shalt Thou Feed On Death, That Feeds On Men.

Fat Paunches Have Lean Pates, And Dainty Bits Make Rich The Ribs, But Backrout Quite The Wits.

'tis The Soldier's Life To Have Their Balmy Slumbers Waked With Strife.

Give Every Man Thy Ear, But Few Thy Voice.