Holy, Holy, Holy Is The Lord God

Since The French Revolution Englishmen Are All Intermeasurable One By Another, Certainly A Happy State Of Agreement To Which I Forone Do Not Agree.

Mutual Forgiveness Of Each Vice. Such Are The Gates Of Paradise.

O Thou Who Passest Through Our Valleys In Thy Strength, Curb Thy Fierce Steeds, Allay The Heat That Flames From Their Large Nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft Pitchest Here Thy Golden Tent, And Oft Beneath Our Oaks Hast Slept, While We Beheld With Joy Thy Ruddy Limbs And Flourishing Hair.

Then Cherish Pity, Lest You Drive An Angel From Your Door.

A Dog Starved At His Master's Gate Predicts The Ruin Of The State.