T'is True: There's Magic In

We That Are True Lovers Run Into Strange Capers.

All Dark And Comfortless.

Thus With A Kiss I Die

When Words Are Scarce They Are Seldom Spent In Vain.

That Strain Again! It Had A Dying Fall: O, It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets, Stealing And Giving Odour! Enough; No More: 'tis Not So Sweet As It Was Before.