Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers

To Stand Against The Deep Dread-bolted Thunder, In The Most Terrible And Nimble Stroke Of Quick, Cross Lightning.

Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead The Blind.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On.

Wisely Weigh Our Sorrow With Our Comfort.

For Precious Friends Hid In Death's Dateless Night.