The Moon's An Arrant Thief, And Her

Tis No Sin For A Man To Labor In His Vocation.

It Comes To Pass Oft That A Terrible Oath, With A Swaggering Accent Sharply Twanged Off, Gives Manhood More Approbation Than Ever Proof Itself Would Have Earned Him.

The Summer's Flower Is To The Summer Sweet Though To Itself It Only Live And Die

Alas, That Love, Whose View Is Muffled Still, Should Without Eyes See Pathways To His Will!

No Legacy Is So Rich As Honesty.