But When He Has Done This, Let

O Thou Who Passest Through Our Valleys In Thy Strength, Curb Thy Fierce Steeds, Allay The Heat That Flames From Their Large Nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft Pitchest Here Thy Golden Tent, And Oft Beneath Our Oaks Hast Slept, While We Beheld With Joy Thy Ruddy Limbs And Flourishing Hair.

Where Any View Of Money Exists, Art Cannot Be Carried On.

Joy And Woe Are Woven Fine.

Without Unceasing Practice Nothing Can Be Done. Practice Is Art. If You Leave Off You Are Lost.

Come Live, And Be Merry, And Join With Me, To Sing The Sweet Chorus Of 'ha Ha He!