God Forgive Me For Having Thought It

Ambition Is No Cure For Love!

Merrily, Merrily Goes The Bark On A Breeze From The Northward Free, So Shoots Through The Morning Sky The Lark, Or The Swan Through The Summer Sea.

If You Keep A Thing Seven Years, You Are Sure To Find A Use For It.

My Hope, My Heaven, My Trust Must Be, My Gentle Guide, In Following Thee.

The Lover's Pleasure, Like That Of The Hunter, Is In The Chase, And The Brightest Beauty Loses Half Its Merit, As The Flower Its Perfume, When The Willing Hand Can Reach It Too Easily. There Must Be Doubt; There Must Be Difficulty And Danger.