Sweet Is The Breath Of Morn, Her

Yet Once More, O Ye Laurels, And Once More Ye Myrtles Brown, With Ivy Never Sere, I Come To Pluck Your Berries Harsh And Crude, And With Forced Fingers Rude Shatter Your Leaves Before The Mellowing Year.

Time Will Run Back And Fetch The Age Of Gold.

The Teachers Of Our Law, And To Propose What Might Improve My Knowledge Or Their Own.

Well Observe The Rule Of Not Too Much, By Temperance Taught In What Thou Eat'st And Drink'st.

License They Mean When They Cry Liberty; For Who Loves That, Must First Be Wise And Good.