To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap.

What Boots It At One Gate To Make Defence, And At Another To Let In The Foe?

Beauty Stands In The Admiration Only Of Weak Minds Led Captive.

In The Sweat Of Thy Face Thou Shalt Eat Bread, Till Thou Return Unto The Ground; For Thou Out Of The Ground Wast Taken; Know Thy Birth, For Dust Thou Art, And Shalt To Dust Return.

Who, As They Sung, Would Take The Prison'd Soul And Lap It In Elysium.