A Man Is Always Afraid Of A

Is There No Hope? The Sick Man Said, The Silent Doctor Shook His Head, And Took His Leave With Signs Of Sorrow, Despairing Of His Fee To-morrow.

If With Me You'd Fondly Stray Over The Hills And Far Away.

To Shoot At Crows Is Powder Flung Away.

No Author Ever Spar'd A Brother.

Envy Is A Kind Of Praise.