He Draweth Out The Thread Of His

Assume A Virtue If You Have It Not.

For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.

Grim-visaged War Hath Smoothed His Wrinkled Front; And Now, Instead Of Mounting Barbed Steeds To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries, He Capers Nimbly In A Lady's Chamber To The Lascivious Pleasing Of A Lute.

Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run.