Is Not The Truth The Truth?

Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe, Hew Down And Fell The Hardest-timber'd Oak.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

He Was A Man, Take Him For All In All, I Shall Not Look Upon His Like Again.

She Says I Am Not Fair, That I Lack Manners; She Calls Me Proud, And That She Could Not Love Me, Were Man As Rare As Phoenix.

A Table Full Of Welcome Makes Scarce One Dainty Dish.