A Glass Of Good Wine Is A

Well, Then--our Course Is Chosen--spread The Sail-- Heave Oft The Lead, And Mark The Soundings Well-- Look To The Helm, Good Master--many A Shoal Marks This Stern Coast, And Rocks, Where Sits The Siren Who, Like Ambition, Lures Men To Their Ruin.

A Few Drops Sprinkled On The Torch Of Love Make The Flame Blaze The Brighter.

Here Is Neither Want Of Appetite Nor Mouths, Pray Heaven We Be Not Scant Of Meat Or Mirth.

The Rose Is Fairest When 't Is Budding New, And Hope Is Brightest When It Dawns From Fears. The Rose Is Sweetest Wash'd With Morning Dew, And Love Is Loveliest When Embalm'd In Tears.

Who, Noteless As The Race From Which He Sprung, Saved Others' Names, But Left His Own Unsung.