Honesty Needs No Pains To Set Itself

I Am Rich Beyond The Dreams Of Avarice.

'tis Now The Summer Of Your Youth: Time Has Not Cropped The Roses From Your Cheek, Though Sorrow Long Has Washed Them.

Beauty Has Wings, And Too Hastily Flies, And Love, Unrewarded, Soon Sickens And Dies.

Faith Goes Out Through The Window When Beauty Comes In At The Door.

The Lot Of Critics Is To Be Remembered By What They Failed To Understand.