A Flow'ret Crushed In The Bud, A

There Are Like To Be Short Graces Where The Devil Plays Host.

English Physicians Kill You, The French Let You Die.

Oft In The Stilly Night, Ere Slumber's Chain Has Bound Me, Fond Memory Brings The Light Of Other Days Around Me; The Smiles, The Tears, Of Boyhood's Years, The Words Of Love Then Spoken; The Eyes That Shone Now Dimmed And Gone, The Cheerful Hearts Now Broken.

When True Hearts Lie Wither'd And Fond Ones Are Flown, Oh, Who Would Inhabit This Bleak World Alone?

Riches Are Chiefly Good Because They Give Us Time.