T Is The Will That Makes The

You Say To Me-wards Your Affection's Strong; Pray Love Me Little, So You Love Me Long.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Gather Ye Rose-buds While Ye May, Old Time Is Still A Flying: And This Same Flower That Smiles To Day, Tomorrow Will Be Dying.

Bid Me To Live, And I Will Livethy Protestant To Be,or Bid Me Love, And I Will Givea Loving Heart To Thee.

Drink Wine, And Live Here Blitheful While Ye May; The Morrow's Life Too Late Is; Live To-day.