Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

The Dances Ended, All The Fairy Train For Pinks And Daisies Search'd The Flow'ry Plain.

O Happiness! Our Being's End And Aim! Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! Whate'er Thy Name: That Something Still Which Prompts The Eternal Sigh, For Which We Bear To Live, Or Dare To Die.

Truth Needs Not Flowers Of Speech.

To Balance Fortune By A Just Expense, Join With Economy, Magnificence.

Who Taught That Heaven-directed Spire To Rise?