To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For,

Not All The Water In The Rough Rude Sea Can Wash The Balm From An Anointed King.

These Words Are Razors To My Wounded Heart.

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank Here We Will Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness, And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony

The Will Is Deaf And Hears No Heedful Friends.

This Music Crept By Me Upon The Waters, Allaying Both Their Fury And My Passion With Its Sweet Air: Thence I Have Follow’d It.