Short Summers Lightly Have A Forward Spring.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head?

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

Policy Sits Above Conscience.

Beauty Is But A Vain And Doubtful Good; A Shining Gloss That Fadeth Suddenly; A Flower That Dies When It Begins To Bud; A Doubtful Good, A Gloss, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour.

I Have Thrust Myself Into This Maze, Haply To Wive And Thrive As Best I May.