Words Are Like Leaves; And Where They

The Dances Ended, All The Fairy Train For Pinks And Daisies Search'd The Flow'ry Plain.

Here Am I, Dying Of A Hundred Good Symptoms.

But See, The Shepherds Shun The Noonday Heat, The Lowing Herds To Murmuring Brooks Retreat, To Closer Shades The Panting Flocks Remove; Ye Gods! And Is There No Relief For Love?

Wine Works The Heart Up, Wakes The Wit, There Is No Cure 'gainst Age But It

A Patriot Is A Fool In Ev'ry Age.