Lord, Lord, How This World Is Given

'tis Pride That Pulls The Country Down.

So Our Virtues Lie In The Interpretation Of The Time

Would I Were In An Alehouse In London.

O, But They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony: Where Words Are Scarce, They Are Seldom Spent In Vain: For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain. He, That No More Must Say, Is Listened More Than They Whom Youth And Ease Have Taught To Gloze; More Are Men's Ends Marked, Than Their Lives Before: The Setting Sun, And Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last; Writ In Rememberance More Than Things Long Past

To Have Seen Much And To Have Nothing Is To Have Rich Eyes And Poor Hands.