Aaron Hill

The man who pauses on the paths of treason,
Halts on a quicksand, the first step engulfs him.

The man who pauses on the paths of treason,
Halts on a quicksand, the first step engulfs him.

Hundreds of men were turned into beasts,
Like the guests at Circe's horrible feasts,
By the magic read more

Hundreds of men were turned into beasts,
Like the guests at Circe's horrible feasts,
By the magic of ale and cider.

The more the eggs, the worse the hatch,
The more the fish, the worse the catch.

The more the eggs, the worse the hatch,
The more the fish, the worse the catch.

There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.

There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.

The mind flies back with a grand recoil
From debts not due till to-morrow.

The mind flies back with a grand recoil
From debts not due till to-morrow.