Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie,

I Had Rather Live With Cheese And Garlic In A Windmill.

A Golden Mind Stoops Not To Shows Of Dross.

O Jest Unseen, Inscrutable, Invisible, As A Nose On A Man's Face, Or A Weathercock On A Steeple.

In Nature There's No Blemish But The Mind. None Can Be Called Deformed But The Unkind.

Her Father Lov'd Me; Oft Invited Me; Still Question'd Me The Story Of My Life, From Year To Year, The Battles, Sieges, Fortunes, That I Have Pass'd.