Dancing Is The Poetry Of The Foot.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

Softly Sweet, In Lydian Measures, Soon He Sooth'd His Soul To Pleasures. War, He Sung, Is Toil And Trouble; Honour But An Empty Bubble; Never Ending, Still Beginning, Fighting Still, And Still Destroying. If All The World Be Worth The Winning, Think, Oh Think It Worth Enjoying: Lovely Thais Sits Beside Thee, Take The Good The Gods Provide Thee.

Repartee Is The Soul Of Conversation.

To So Perverse A Sex All Grace Is Vain.

A Happy Genius Is The Gift Of Nature.