O, While You Live, Tell

Music Can Minister To Minds Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain, And With Its Sweet Oblivious Antidote, Cleanse The Full Bosom Of All Perilous Stuff That Weighs Upon The Heart.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

Good Old Grandsire ... We Shall Be Joyful Of Thy Company.

Thou And I Are Too Wise To Woo Peaceably.

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.