If Wishes Would Prevail With Me, My

Let Fancy Still In My Sense In Lethe Steep; If It Be Thus To Dream, Still Let Me Sleep!

All The Perfumes Of Arabia Will Not Sweeten This Little Hand! Oh, Oh, Oh!

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

Hang Those That Talk Of Fear.

Pardon's The Word To All.