For Love Will Still Be Lord Of

The Way Was Long, The Wind Was Cold, The Minstrel Was Infirm And Old; His Withered Cheek, And Tresses Gray, Seemed To Have Know A Better Day.

Treason Seldom Dwells With Courage.

Here Eglantine Embalm'd The Air, Hawthorne And Hazel Mingled There; The Primrose Pale, And Violet Flower, Found In Each Cliff A Narrow Bower; Fox-glove And Nightshade, Side By Side, Emblems Of Punishment And Pride, Group'd Their Dark Hues With Every Stain The Weather-beaten Crags Retain.

O, What A Tangled Web We Weave When First We Practise To Deceive!

One Or Two Of These Scoundrel Statesmen Should Be Shot Once A-year, Just To Keep The Others On Their Good Behavior.