With Mirth In Funeral And With Dirge

Flout 'em, And Scout 'em; And Scout 'em, And Flout 'em; / Thought Is Free.

Now Would I Give A Thousand Furlongs Of Sea For An Acre Of Barren Ground.

The Patient Must Minister To Himself

And When Love Speaks, The Voice Of All The Gods Makes Heaven Drowsy With The Harmony.

Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A Mortal Woe.