But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains

I Am Obnoxious To Each Carping Tongue/ Who Says My Hand A Needle Better Fits./ A Poet's Pen All Scorn I Should Thus Wrong/ For Such Despite They Cast On Female Wits;/ If What I Do Prove Well, It Won't Advance,/ They'll Say It's Stolen, Or Else, It Was By Chance.

Fire Hath Its Force Abated By Water, Not By Wind; And Anger Must Be Allayed By Cold Words, And Not By Blustering Threats.

If We Had Not Winter, The Spring Would Not Be So Pleasant; If We Did Not Sometimes Taste Of Adversity, Prosperity Would Not Be So Welcome.

I Happy Am, If Well With You.

Flesh Of My Flesh, Bone Of My Bone, I Here, Though There, Yet Both But One.