All Hoods Make Not Monks.

So We'll Live, And Pray, And Sing, And Tell Old Tales, And Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

How Many Fond Fools Serve Mad Jealousy!

Patch Grief With Proverbs.

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

There Is A Tide In The Affairs Of Men