Truth Is Truth To The

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

Make Use Of Time, Let Not Advantage Slip; Beauty Within Itself Should Not Be Wasted: Fair Flowers That Are Not Gather'd In Their Prime Rot And Consume Themselves In Little Time.

Sweet Recreation Barred, What Doth Ensue But Moody And Dull Melancholy, Kinsman To Grim And Comfortless Despair.

'twas Merry When You Wagered On Your Angling, When Your Diver Did Hang A Salt Fish On His Hook, Which He With Fervency Drew Up.

Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.