Beauty Is Nature's Brag, And Must Be

Awake, Arise Or Be For Ever Fall’n.

O Fairest Of Creation, Last And Best Of All God's Works, Creature In Whom Excelled Whatever Can To Sight Or Thought Be Formed, Holy, Divine, Good, Amiable, Or Sweet! How Art Thou Lost, How On A Sudden Lost, Defaced, Deflow'red, And Now To Death Devote? Paradise Lost

Let No Man Seek Henceforth To Be Foretold That Shall Befall Him Or His Children.

A Short Retirement Urges A Sweet Return.

He Who Freely Magnifies What Hath Been Nobly Done, And Fears Not To Declares As Freely What Might Be Done Better, Gives Ye The Best Covenant Of His Fidelity.