My Tears Are Buried In My Heart,

So Much To Win, So Much To Lose, No Marvel That I Fear To Choose.

The Truth Is, We Never Make For Others The Allowance We Make For Ourselves; And We Should Deny Even Our Own Words, Could We Hear Them Spoken By Another.

There Is Nothing So Easy As To Be Wise For Others; A Species Of Prodigality, By-the-by - For Such Wisdom Is Wholly Wasted.

A Blossom Full Of Promise Is Life's Joy, That Never Comes To Fruit. Hope, For A Time, Suns The Young Floweret In Its Gladsome Light, And It Looks Flourishing--a Little While-- 't Is Pass'd, We Know Not Whither, But 't Is Gone.

Curiosity Is Its Own Suicide.