Oft In Dreams Invention We Bestow To

Not Grace, Or Zeal, Love Only Was My Call, And If I Lose Thy Love, I Lose My All.

The Season When To Come, And When To Go, To Sing, Or Cease To Sing, We Never Know.

O Happiness! Our Being's End And Aim! Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! Whate'er Thy Name: That Something Still Which Prompts The Eternal Sigh, For Which We Bear To Live, Or Dare To Die.

Wit And Judgment Often Are At Strife.

The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint Run Mad.