Some falls the means are happier to rise.
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
The object of Art is to give life a shape.
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.
Exit, pursued by a bear.
I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.