Kiss Till The Cow Comes Home.

Oh, Love Will Make A Dog Howl In Rhyme.

Who Doubting Tyranny, And Fainting Under Fortune's False Lottery, Desperately Run To Death, For Dread Of Death; That Soul's Most Stout, That, Bearing All Mischance, Dares Last It Out.

There Is A Method In Man's Wickedness; It Grows Up By Degrees.

Daisies Smell-less, Yet Most Quaint, And Sweet Thyme True, Primrose, First Born Child Of Ver, Merry Spring-time's Harbinger.

The True Way To Gain Much, Is Never To Desire To Gain Too Much. He Is Not Rich That Possesses Much, But He That Covets No More; And He Is Not Poor That Enjoys Little, But He That Wants Too Much.