Praise Us As We Are Tasted, Allow

No Matter Where; Of Comfort No Man Speak: Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth

Tis Not The Many Oaths That Make The Truth; But The Plain Single Vow, That Is Vow'd True.

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.

I Love A Ballad In Print O' Life, For Then We Are Sure They Are True.

All Pride Is Willing Pride.