Garlick maketh a man wynke, drynke, and stynke.
Beauty is but a flower, which wrinkles will devour.
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
As like a church and an ale-house, God and the devell, they manie times dwell neere to ether.
All good things vanish in less than a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year, The earth is hell when you leav'st to appear.
No, you never get any fun out of the things you haven't done.
Beauty is but a flower,Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen's eye.I am sick, I must die;Lord have mercy on us.
