Good Luck Befriend Thee, Son; For At

O Nightingale, That On Yon Bloomy Spray Warblest At Eve, When All The Woods Are Still; Thou With Fresh Hope The Lover's Heart Dost Fill While The Jolly Hours Lead On Propitious May.

Lords Are Lordliest In Their Wine.

O Welcome Pure-eyed Faith, White Handed Hope, Thou Hovering Angel Girt With Golden Wings.

For Men To Tell How Human Life Began Is Hard; For Who Himself Beginning Knew?

Temper Justice With Mercy.