Wine Is A Terrible Foe, Hard To

When Roused To Rage The Maddening Populace Storms, Their Fury, Like A Rolling Flame, Bursts Forth Unquenchable; But Give Its Violence Ways, It Spends Itself, And As Its Force Abates, Learns To Obey And Yields It To Your Will.

I Loathe A Friend Whose Gratitude Grows Old, A Friend Who Takes His Friend's Prosperity But Will Not Voyage With Him In His Grief

Moderation, The Noblest Gift Of Heaven.

No Man On Earth Is Truly Free, All Are Slaves Of Money Or Necessity. Public Opinion Or Fear Of Prosecution Forces Each One, Against His Conscience, To Conform.

Oh, Trebly Blest The Placid Lot Of Those Whose Hearth Foundations Are In Pure Love Laid, Where Husband's Breast With Tempered Ardor Glows, And Wife, Oft Mother, Is In Heart A Maid!