“Unhappy me," quoth she, "and will't not stand? Come, let me rub and chafe it with my hand. Perhaps the silly worm is laboured sore And wearièd that it can do no more.” — Thomas Nash Copy Share Image
As like a church and an ale-house, God and the devell, they manie times dwell neere to ether. — Thomas Nash Copy Share Image
All good things vanish in less than a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year,… — Thomas Nash Copy Share Image
“Unhappy me," quoth she, "and will't not stand? Come, let me rub and chafe it with my hand. Perhaps the silly worm is laboured… — Thomas Nash Copy Share Image
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… — Thomas Nash Copy Share Image
