If You Are For A Merry Jaunt,

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

Rich The Treasure, Sweet The Pleasure,- Sweet Is Pleasure After Pain.

Let Fortune Empty Her Whole Quiver On Me, I Have A Soul That, Like An Ample Shield, Can Take In All, And Verge Enough For More; Fate Was Not Mine, Nor Am I Fate's: Souls Know No Conquerors.

Of All The Tyrannies On Human Kind The Worst Is That Which Persecutes The Mind.

Who Climbs The Grammar-tree, Distinctly Knows Where Noun, And Verb, And Participle Grows.