The Only Time You Run Out Of

The Life Of A Wit Is A Warfare Upon Earth.

Behold The Child, By Nature's Kindly Law Pleased With A Rattle, Tickled With A Straw.

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

Thus Let Me Live, Unseen, Unknown, Thus Unlamented Let Me Die, Steal From The World, And Not A Stone Tell Where I Lie.

He Who Serves His Brother Best Gets Nearer God Than All The Rest.