The Stroke Of Death Is

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

Captain Of Our Fairy Band, Helena Is Here At Hand, And The Youth, Mistook By Me, Pleading For A Lover's Fee. Shall We Their Fond Pageant See? Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

But To My Mind, Though I Am Native Here, And To The Manner Born, It Is A Custom, More Honored In The Breach Than The Observance.

If They Love They Know Not Why, They Hate Upon No Better Ground, They Hate Upon No Better A Ground

Out Of This Nettle - Danger - We Pluck This Flower - Safety.