Let Us Have A Care Not To

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.

Bad's The Best Of Us.

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

Of All The Paths [that] Lead To A Woman's Love Pity's The Straightest.

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