Jealousy Is The Jaundice Of

And Nobler Is A Limited Command, Given By The Love Of All Your Native Land, Than A Successive Title, Long And Dark, Drawn From The Mouldy Rolls Of Noah's Ark.

Softly Sweet, In Lydian Measures, Soon He Sooth'd His Soul To Pleasures. War, He Sung, Is Toil And Trouble; Honour But An Empty Bubble; Never Ending, Still Beginning, Fighting Still, And Still Destroying. If All The World Be Worth The Winning, Think, Oh Think It Worth Enjoying: Lovely Thais Sits Beside Thee, Take The Good The Gods Provide Thee.

None Would Live Past Years Again, Yet All Hope Pleasure In What Yet Remain; And, From The Dregs Of Life, Think To Receive, What The First Sprightly Running Could Not Give.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

Seas Are The Fields Of Combat For The Winds; But When They Sweep Along Some Flowery Coast, Their Wings Move Mildly, And Their Rage Is Lost.