My Dear, Be A Good Man Be

The Tear, Down Childhood's Cheek That Flows, Is Like The Dewdrop On The Rose; When Next The Summer Breeze Comes By And Waves The Bush, The Flower Is Dry.

A Lawyer Without History Or Literature Is A Mechanic, A Mere Working Mason; If He Possesses Some Knowledge Of These, He May Venture To Call Himself An Architect.

Warriors! And Where Are Warriors Found, If Not On Martial Britain's Ground? And Who, When Waked With Note Of Fire, Love More Than They The British Lyre?

Discretion Is The Perfection Of Reason, And A Guide To Us In All The Duties Of Life.

Where Shall The Lover Rest, Whom The Fates Sever From His True Maiden's Breast, Parted For Ever? Where, Through Groves Deep And High, Sounds The Far Billow, Where Early Violets Die, Under The Willow.