Not An Angel Of The Air, Bird

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.

So Loving To My Mother, That He Might Not Beteem The Winds Of Heaven, Visit Her Face' Too Roughly.

Tis Not The Many Oaths That Make The Truth; But The Plain Single Vow, That Is Vow'd True.

Some Rise By Sin, And Some By Virtue Fall.

All's Well If All Ends Well.