Of Writing Many Books There Is No

Quick-loving Hearts ... May Quickly Loathe.

You May Write Twenty Lines One Day--or Even Three Like Euripides In Three Days--and A Hundred Lines In One More Day--and Yet On The Hundred, May Have Been Expended As Much Good Work, As On The Twenty And The Three.

The Soul's Rialto Hath Its Merchandise, I Barter For Curl Upon That Mart.

Free Men Freely Work: Whoever Fears God, Fears To Sit At Ease.

I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf To Fade Upon That Bosom Warm, Content To Wither, Pale And Brief, The Trophy Of Thy Paler Form.