Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

There Is A Majesty In Simplicity.

Destroy All Creatures For Thy Sport Or Gust, Yet Cry, If Man's Unhappy, God's Unjust.

Modest Plainness Sets Off Sprightly Wit, For Works May Have More With Than Does 'em Good, As Bodies Perish Through Excess Of Blood.

O Love! For Sylvia Let Me Gain The Prize, And Make My Tongue Victorious As Her Eyes.

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.