My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop

The Lily Is All In White, Like A Saint, And So Is No Mate For Me.

Fuss Is The Froth Of Business.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

Alas For The Rarity Of Christian Charity Under The Sun!

While The Steeples Are Loud In Their Joy, To The Tune Of The Bells' Ring-a-ding, Let Us Chime In A Peal, One And All, For We All Should Be Able To Sing Hullah Baloo.