Virtue Preserv'd From Fell Destruction's Blast, Led

Enough No More; Tis Not So Sweet Now As It Was Before.

Oh, How This Spring Of Love Resembleth, The Uncertain Glory Of An April Day, Which Now Shows All Beauty Of The Sun, And By And By A Cloud Takes All Away

A Peevish Self-willed Harlotry It Is. *she’s A Stubborn Little Brat.*

Time And The Hour Run Through The Roughest Day.

All The Perfumes Of Arabia Will Not Sweeten This Little Hand! Oh, Oh, Oh!