Our State Cannot Be Severed, We Are

Luck Is The Residue Of Design.

The Mind Is Its Own Place, And In Itself, Can Make Heaven Of Hell, And A Hell Of Heaven.

She What Was Honour Knew, And With Obsequious Majesty Approv'd My Pleaded Reason. To The Nuptial Bower I Led Her Blushing Like The Morn; All Heaven And Happy Constellations On That Hour Shed Their Selectest Influence; The Earth Gave Sign Of Gratulation, And Each Hill; Joyous The Birds; Fresh Gales And Gentle Airs Whisper'd It To The Woods, And From Their Wings Flung Rose, Flung Odours From The Spicy Shrub.

Few Sometimes May Know, When Thousands Err.

Love-quarrels Oft In Pleasing Concord End.