Nothing Can Come Of Nothing.

A Great While Ago The World Begun, With Hey, Ho, The Wind And The Rain; But That's All One, Our Play Is Done, And We'll Strive To Please You Every Day.

When I Have Plucked The Rose, I Cannot Give It Vital Growth Again, It Needs Must Wither. I'll Smell It On The Tree.

Confess Yourself To Heaven, Repent What's Past, Avoid What Is To Come, And Do Not Spread The Compost On The Weeds To Make Them Ranker.

Truly The Souls Of Men Are Full Of Dread: Ye Cannot Reason Almost With A Man That Looks Not Heavily And Full Of Fear.

Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own