What is the city but the people?
Within the book and volume of thy brain.
We bring forth weeds when our quick minds lie still.
God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.
I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.