My Heart Suspects More Than Mine Eye

Highly Fed And Lowly Taught.

Under The Greenwood Tree, Who Loves To Lie With Me And Tune His Merry Note, Unto The Sweet Bird's Throat; Come Hither, Come Hither, Come Hither. Here Shall He See No Enemy But Winter And Rough Weather.

I Drink To The General Joy O’ The Whole Table." Macbeth

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself

Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast.