But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

Farewell, Too Little, And Too Lately Known, Whom I Began To Think And Call My Own.

…so When The Last And Dreadful Hour This Crumbling Pageant Shall Devour, The Trumpet Shall Be Heard On High, The Dead Shall Live, The Living Die, And Music Shall Untune The Sky

Thus All Below Is Strength, And All Above Is Grace.

Ill Habits Gather Unseen Degrees, As Brooks Make Rivers, Rivers Run To Seas.

None But The Brave Deserve The Fair.