And Shade The Violets, That

To Sorrow I Bade Good-morrow, And Thought To Leave Her Far Away Behind; But Cheerly, Cheerly, She Loves Me Dearly: She Is So Constant To Me, And So Kind.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.

Give Me Women, Wine And Snuff Until I Cry Out 'hold, Enough!' You May Do So San Objection Till The Day Of Resurrection; For Bless My Beard Then Aye Shall Be My Beloved Trinity.

A Hope Beyond The Shadow Of A Dream.

Load Every Rift With Ore.