The glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.

The glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.

We never valued this poor seat of England,
And therefore, living hence, did give ourself
To barbarous read more

We never valued this poor seat of England,
And therefore, living hence, did give ourself
To barbarous license; as 'tis ever common
That men are merriest when they are from home.

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a.
A merry heart goes all read more

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a.
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.

So the gods bless me,
When all our offices have been oppressed
With riotous feeders, when our read more

So the gods bless me,
When all our offices have been oppressed
With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept
With drunken spilth of wine, when every room
Hath blazed with lights and brayed with minstrelsy,
I have retired me to a wasteful cock
And set mine eyes at flow.

And if you can be merry then, I'll say
A man may weep upon his wedding day.

And if you can be merry then, I'll say
A man may weep upon his wedding day.

Hostess, clap to the doors. Watch to-night, pray to-morrow.
Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of read more

Hostess, clap to the doors. Watch to-night, pray to-morrow.
Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good
fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? Shall we have
a play extempore.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Berowne they call him; but a merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,
I never spent read more

Berowne they call him; but a merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour's talk withal.

(Pedro:) Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best
becomes you for out o' question you were read more

(Pedro:) Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best
becomes you for out o' question you were born in a merry hour.
(Beatrice:) No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there
was a star danced, and under that was I born.