Death Hath So Many Doors To Let

Weep No More, Nor Sigh, Nor Groan, Sorrow Calls No Time That 's Gone; Violets Plucked, The Sweetest Rain Makes Not Fresh Nor Grow Again.

That Soul That Can Be Honest Is The Only Perfect Man.

Charity And Treating Begin At Home.

Our Acts Our Angels Are, For Good Or Ill, Our Fatal Shadows That Walk By Us Still.

Wine Works The Heart Up, Wakes The Wit; There Is No Cure 'gainst Age But It. And 'tis Late And Cold, Stir Up The Fire; Sit Close And Draw The Table Nigher; Be Merry And Drink Wine That Is Old, A Hearty Medicine 'gainst The Cold.