Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

My Tears Must Stop, For Every Drop Hinders Needle And Thread.

The Moon, The Moon, So Silver And Cold, Her Fickle Temper Has Oft Been Told, Now Shade--now Bright And Sunny-- But Of All The Lunar Things That Change, The One That Shows Most Fickle And Strange, And Takes The Most Eccentric Range, Is The Moon--so Called--of Honey!

Coquetry Is The Champagne Of Love.

Some Sigh For This And That; My Wishes Don't Go Far; The World May Wag At Will, So I Have My Cigar.