Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

Where'er You Walk Cool Gales Shall Fan The Glade, Trees Where You Sit Shall Crowd Into A Shade. Where'er You Tread The Blushing Flowers Shall Rise, And All Things Flourish Where You Turn Your Eyes.

I Begin Where Most People End, With A Full Conviction Of The Emptiness Of All Sorts Of Ambition, And The Unsatisfactory Nature Of All Human Pleasures.

O Let Us Still The Secret Joy Partake, To Follow Virtue Even For Virtue's Sake.

Wine Works The Heart Up, Wakes The Wit, There Is No Cure 'gainst Age But It

Genuine Religion Is Not So Much A Matter Of Feeling As A Matter Of Principle.