In Vain Our Labours Are, Whatsoe'er They

Fight Thou With Shafts Of Silver, And O'ercome When No Force Else Can Get The Masterdom

So When Or You Or I Are Made A Fable, Song, Or Fleeting Shade; All Love, All Liking, All Delight Lies Drowned With Us In Endless Night. Then While Time Serves, And We Are But Decaying; Come, My Corinna, Come, Let's Go A Maying.

Thus Times Do Shift, Each Thing His Turn Does Hold; New Things Succeed, As Former Things Grow Old.

In Sober Mornings Do Not Thou Rehearse The Holy Incantation Of A Verse

Conquer We Shall, But, We Must First Contend! It's Not The Fight That Crowns Us, But The End.