O Winter, Ruler Of The

How Fleet Is A Glance Of The Mind! Compared With The Speed Of Its Flight, The Tempest Itself Lags Behind, And The Swift-winged Arrows Of Light.

Ten Thousand Casks, Forever Dribbling Out Their Base Contents, Touch'd By The Midas Finger Of The State, Bleed Gold For Ministers To Sport Away. Drink, And Be Mad Then; 'tis Your Country Bids!

Stamps God's Own Name Upon A Lie Just Made, To Turn A Penny In The Way Of Trade.

Vice Stings Us Even In Our Pleasures, But Virtue Consoles Us Even In Our Pains.

A Noisy Man Is Always In The Right.