By Hook Or By Crook This Peril

The Glorious Gifts Of The Gods Are Not To Be Cast Aside.

It Is Wrong To Sorrow Without Ceasing.

Now From The Smooth Deep Ocean-stream The Sun Began To Climb The Heavens, And With New Rays Smote The Surrounding Fields.

Our Fruitless Labours Mourn, And Only Rich In Barren Fame Return.

First You Don't Want Me To Get The Pony, Then You Want Me To Take It Back. Make Up Your Mind!