A Thing Well Said Will Be Wit

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

For Every Inch That Is Not Fool, Is Rogue.

A Happy Genius Is The Gift Of Nature.

Love Is Love's Reward.

From Harmony, From Heav'nly Harmony. This Universal Frame Began.