Heaven Give You Many, Many Merry Days.

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.

He That Will Have A Cake Out Of The Wheat Must Tarry The Grinding.

Make Me A Willow Cabin At Your Gate, And Call Upon My Soul Within The House; Write Loyal Cantons Of Contemned Love And Sing Them Loud Even In The Dead Of Night.

Adieu! I Have Too Grieved A Heart To Take A Tedious Leave.

There Is A Tide In The Affairs Of Men