Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain.

The Puritan through Life's sweet garden goes To pluck the thorn and cast away the rose

Ring around the rosie.
A pocket full of posie.
Ashes ashes, we all fall down.
Some people say that this poem is about the Black Death, the fourteenth-century plague that killed 100-million people...
Sadly, though, most experts think this is nonsense...
How can I be so sure about this rhyme when all the experts disagree?
Because I ate the kid who made it up.

I love everything that's old, - old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine

They say women and music should never be dated