Never Anger Made Good Guard For Itself.

I Am Wrapped In Dismal Thinking.

The Little Dogs And All, Tray, Blanch, And Sweetheart-see, They Bark At Me.

How Is It That The Clouds Still Hang On You?

Truly The Souls Of Men Are Full Of Dread: Ye Cannot Reason Almost With A Man That Looks Not Heavily And Full Of Fear.

Hast Any Philosophy In Thee Shepherd? .• • • • . . . He That Wants Money, Means And Content, Is Without Three Good Friends; That The Property Of Rain Is To Wet And Fire To Burn; That Good Pasture Makes Fat Sheep, And A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun; That He That Hath Learned No Wit By Nature Nor Art May Complain Of Good Breeding Or Comes Of A Very Dull Kindred.