And mo the merier is a Prouerbe eke. [The more the merrier.]

Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury 't in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

Imagination is the one weapon in the war against reality.

And castels buylt above in lofty skies, Which never yet had good foundation.

There's nobody at home But Jumping Joan, And father and mother and I.

Like to like.