Let The Sap Of Reason Quench The

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

Truth Is Truth To The End Of Reckoning.

He Was Ever Precise In Promise-keeping.

Better Three Hours Too Soon Than A Minute Too Late.

How My Achievements Mock Me!