Our Jovial Star Reigned At His Birth.

Come The Three Corners Of The World In Arms, And We Shall Shock Them.

'tis Dangerous To Take A Cold, To Sleep, To Drink; But I Tell You, My Lord Fool, Out Of This Nettle, Danger, We Pluck This Flower, Safety.

For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.

A Very Little Little Let Us Do And All Is Done.

What Wouldst Thou Do, Old Man? Think'st Thou That Duty Shall Have Dread To Speak When Power To Flattery Bows?