It Was Always Yet The Trick Of

The Gray-eyed Morn Smiles On The Frowning Night, Checkering The Eastern Clouds With Streaks Of Light.

Thus Die I, Thus, Thus, Thus. Now Am I Dead, Now Am I Fled; My Soul Is In The Sky: Tongue, Lose Thy Light; Moon Take Thy Flight. Now Die, Die, Die, Die, Die.

I Do Know When The Blood Burns, How Prodigal The Soul Lends The Tongue Vows.

When A Gentlemen Is Disposed To Swear, It Is Not For Any Standers-by To Curtail His Oaths.

I Had Rather Hear My Dog Bark At A Crow, Than A Man Swear He Loves Me.