Ready To Go But Never To Return.

Many Can Brook The Weather That Love Not The Wind.

Know More Than Other. Work More Than Other. Expect Less Than Other

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

Virtue That Transgresses Is But Patched With Sin; And Sin That Amends Is But Patched With Virtue.