Shall We Upon The Footing Of Our

'tis Thought The King Is Dead; We Will Not Stay. The Bay Trees In Our Country Are All Wither'd.

Tis Not The Many Oaths That Make The Truth; But The Plain Single Vow, That Is Vow'd True.

What My Tongue Dares Not That My Heart Shall Say

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.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run.