Ill Writers Are Usually The Sharpest Censors.

Happy The Man, And Happy He Alone, He, Who Can Call Today His Own.

Sweet Is Pleasure After Pain.

Softly Sweet, In Lydian Measures, Soon He Sooth'd His Soul To Pleasures. War, He Sung, Is Toil And Trouble; Honour But An Empty Bubble; Never Ending, Still Beginning, Fighting Still, And Still Destroying. If All The World Be Worth The Winning, Think, Oh Think It Worth Enjoying: Lovely Thais Sits Beside Thee, Take The Good The Gods Provide Thee.

Her Wit Was More Than Man, Her Innocence A Child.

New Vows To Plight, And Plighted Vows To Break.