A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling,

What's His Offense? Groping For Trout In A Peculiar River.

Thou Shouldst Not Have Been Old Till Thou Hadst Been Wise.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herald Of Joy: I Were But Little Happy, If I Could Say How Much. Lady, As You Are Mine, I Am Yours: I Give Away Myself For You And Dote Upon The Exchange.

Ambition, The Soldier's Virtue.

Thus Sometimes Hath The Brightest Day A Cloud; And After Summer Evermore Succeeds Barren Winter, With His Wrathful Nipping Cold: So Cares And Joys Abound, As Seasons Fleet.