Hanging And Wiving Goes By Destiny.

Merrily, Merrily Shall I Live Now, Under The Blossom That Hangs On The Bough.

So Well Thy Words Become Thee As Thy Wounds.

The Will Of Man Is By His Reason Sway'd.

How Much An Ill Word May Empoison Liking!

So Shaken As We Are, So Wan With Care, Find We A Time For Frighted Peace To Pant And Breathe Short-winded Accents Of New Broils To Be Commenced In Stronds Afar Remote.