Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

Old Grandsires Talk Of Yesterday With Sorrow, And For Our Children We Reserve Tomorrow.

No Spring Nor Summer Beauty Hath Such Grace As I Have Seen In One Autumnal Face.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!

Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's Thy Jail.

I Neglect God And His Angles For The Noise Of A Fly, For The Rattling Of A Coach, For The Whining Of A Door.