London, Thou Art The Flower

To God Be Humble, To Thy Friend Be Kind, And With Thy Neighbors Gladly Lend And Borrow; His Chance Tonight, It Maybe Thine Tomorrow.

Among My Friends Love Is A Payment. It Is An Old Debt For A Borrowing Foolishly Spent.

Noble Men In The Quiet Of Morning Hear Indians Singing The Continent's Violent Requiem.

All Love Is Lost But Upon God Alone.

Our Pleasance Here Is All Vain Glory, This False Warld Is But Transitory.