I Love Thee; None But Thee, And

Love Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom.

Merrily, Merrily Shall I Live Now, Under The Blossom That Hangs On The Bough.

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.

After Life's Fitful Fever He Sleeps Well. Treason Has Done His Worst. Nor Steel Nor Poison, Malice Domestic, Foreign Levy, Nothing Can Touch Him Further.

Tis Our Fast Intent To Shake All Cares And Business From Our Age, Conferring Them On Younger Strengths, While We Unburdened Crawl Toward Death.