Gather Ye Rosebuds, While Ye May.

In Things A Moderation Keep; Kings Ought To Shear, Not Skin, Their Sheep.

None Pities Him That Is In The Snare, Who Warned Before, Would Not Beware.

Some Asked Me Where The Rubies Grew, And Nothing I Did Say; But With My Finger Pointed To The Lips Of Julia.

In The Hour Of My Distress, When Temptations Me Oppress, And When I My Sins Confess, Sweet Spirit, Comfort Me.

The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven, The Sun.