Love Sought Is Good, But Given Unsought,

I Would Fain Die A Dry Death.

Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.

Wisdom Cries Out In The Streets, And No Man Regards It.

Music Can Minister To Minds Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain, And With Its Sweet Oblivious Antidote, Cleanse The Full Bosom Of All Perilous Stuff That Weighs Upon The Heart.