I Find The Medicine Worse Than The

The Coward's Weapon, Poison.

Joys As Winged Dreams Fly Fast, / Why Should Sadness Longer Last? / Grief Is But A Wound To Woe; / Gentlest Fair, Mourn, Mourn No Moe.

Come, Sing Now, Sing; For I Know You Sing Well; I See You Have A Singing Face.

That Soul That Can Be Honest Is The Only Perfect Man.

Drink Today, And Drown All Sorrow; You Shall Perhaps Not Do Tomorrow.