For Such Things As You, I Can

Love Is A Smoke Made With The Fume Of Sighs.

We Know What We Are, But Know Not What We May Be.

Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sell Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy?

Nothing In His Life Became Him Like Leaving It.

There Is An Old Poor Man,. . . . Oppress'd With Two Weak Evils, Age And Hunger.