I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it; knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.

Hang those that talk of fear.

'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall.

Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.