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Rh By the silence of the owl. By the chirping of the thorn, By the butts that empty roll. We foretell th’ approach of morn. Fill, then fill the vacant glass. Let no precious moment slip; Flout the moralizing ass; Joys find entrance at the lip.

P slumb’ring on the ocean, Seamen fear no danger nigh; The wind and waves in constant motion, Soothe them with a lullaby.

Is the wind tempestuous blowing? Still no danger they descry; The guiltless heart its boon bestowing, Soothes them with a lullaby.