Silence Is The Perfect Herald Of Joy.

Those That Much Covet Are With Gain So Fond, For What They Have Not, That Which They Possess They Scatter And Unloose It From Their Bond, And So, By Hoping More, They Have But Less; Or, Gaining More, The Profit Of Excess Is But To Surfeit, And Such Griefs Sustain, That They Prove Bankrupt In This Poor-rich Gain.

Good Old Grandsire ... We Shall Be Joyful Of Thy Company.

Alas, Their Love May Be Call'd Appetite. No Motion Of The Liver, But The Palate

For Who So Firm That Cannot Be Seduced?

Though Age From Folly Could Not Give Me Freedom, It Does From Childishness.