The cut worm forgives the plough.

O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy; And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on.

The early bird catches the worm.

Schering-Plough is hanging in there,

Schering-Plough is hanging in there.