Garlick maketh a man wynke, drynke, and stynke.
Beauty is but a flower, which wrinkles will devour.
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.
As like a church and an ale-house, God and the devell, they manie times dwell neere to ether.
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!
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