Put Money In Thy Purse.

'tis Brief, My Lord...as Woman's Love.

Beauty's A Doubtful Good, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour; And Beauty, Blemish'd Once, For Ever's Lost, In Spite Of Physic, Painting, Pain, And Cost.

Tis But A Base, Ignoble Mind That Mounts No Higher Than A Bird Can Soar.

Charity Itself Fulfills The Law. And Who Can Sever Love From Charity?

I Am That Merry Wanderer Of The Night.