Dancing Is The Poetry Of The Foot.

Ev'n Wit's A Burthen, When It Talks Too Long.

Many Things Impossible To Thought Have Been By Need To Full Perfection Brought.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

He Has Not Learned The First Lesson Of Life Who Does Not Every Day Surmount A Fear.

Keen Appetite And Quick Digestion Wait On You And Yours.