’T is a little thing

So his life has flowed From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill May hover round its surface, glides in light, And takes no shadow from them.

Nevermore Let the great interests of the State depend Upon the thousand chances that may sway A piece of human frailty; swear to me That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves The means of sovereignty.

In ourselves In our own honest hearts and chainless hands Will be our safeguard:

Fill the seats of justice With good men, not so absolute in goodness As to forget what human frailty is.

Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts— For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

For see the rosy May draws nigh; She claims a virgin queen; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.