Ay, Is It Not A Language I

Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Garments Of Changeable Taffeta, For Thy Mind Is Opal.

Though Men Can Cover Crimes With Bold, Stern Looks, Poor Women's Faces Are Their Own Faults' Books.

Were All The Letters Sun, I Could Not See One.

Charity Itself Fulfills The Law. And Who Can Sever Love From Charity?

So Wise So Young, They Say, Do Never Live Long.