Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead

Music Can Minister To Minds Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain, And With Its Sweet Oblivious Antidote, Cleanse The Full Bosom Of All Perilous Stuff That Weighs Upon The Heart.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose.

Put Money In Thy Purse.

But She Makes Hungry Where She Most Satisfies.

Let Every Man Be Master Of His Time.