While We Lie Tumbling In The Hay.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing Hours, Makes The Night Morning, And The Noontide Night.

Report Of Fashions In Proud Italy Whose Manners Still Our Tardy-apish Nation Limps After In Base Imitation

A Man Should Be What He Seems.

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself