Good Luck Lies In Odd Numbers.

The Proverb Is Something Musty.

Away! Thou'rt Poison To My Blood.

Company, Villainous Company, Hath Been The Spoil Of Me.

Music Can Minister To Minds Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain, And With Its Sweet Oblivious Antidote, Cleanse The Full Bosom Of All Perilous Stuff That Weighs Upon The Heart.

What Is Aught But As 'tis Valued?