When The Age Is In, The Wit

The Moon Shines Bright. In Such A Night As This. When The Sweet Wind Did Gently Kiss The Trees And They Did Make No Noise, In Such A Night.

A Good Heart Is The Sun And The Moon; Or, Rather, The Sun And Not The Moon, For It Shines Bright And Never Changes.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

Every Man Has His Fault, And Honesty Is His.