The Lamb Thy Riot Dooms To Bleed

O Let Us Still The Secret Joy Partake, To Follow Virtue Even For Virtue's Sake.

But See, Orion Sheds Unwholesome Dews; Arise, The Pines A Noxious Shade Diffuse; Sharp Boreas Blows, And Nature Feels Decay, Time Conquers All, And We Must Time Obey.

Great Oaks Grow From Little Acorns. He Has A Green Thumb. He Has Green Fingers. He's Sowing His Wild Oats. Here Ceres' Gifts In Waving Prospect Stand, And Nodding Tempt The Joyful Reaper's Hand.

Is There No Bright Reversion In The Sky, For Those Who Greatly Think Or Bravely Die?

The Hog That Ploughs Not, Not Obeys Thy Call, Lives On The Labours Of This Lord Of All.