Sigh No More Ladies, Sigh No More,

A Man May Fish With The Worm That Hath Eat Of A King, And Eat Of The Fish That Hath Fed Of That Worm

My Wits Begin To Turn.

Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A Mortal Woe.

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.

But Kate, Dost Thou Understand Thus Much English? Canst Thou Love Me?" Catherine: "i Cannot Tell." Henry: "can Any Of Your Neighbours Tell, Kate? I'll Ask Them.