Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

It Was Not In The Winter Our Loving Lot Was Cast! It Was The Time Of Roses, We Plucked Them As We Passed!

So Mayst Thou Live, Dear! Many Years, In All The Bliss That Life Endears

Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With Its Tail In Its Mouth.

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.