Still Are The Thoughts To Memory Dear.

The Willow Which Bends To The Tempest Often Escapes Better Than The Oak Which Resists It.

I'll Dream No More--by Mainly Mind Not Even In Sleep Is Well Resigned. My Midnight Orisons Said O'er, I'll Turn To Rest And Dream No More.

But Search The Land Of Living Men, Where Wilt Thou Find Their Like Again?

A Glass Of Good Wine Is A Gracious Creature, And Reconciles Poor Mortality To Itself And That Is What Few Things Can Do.

I Will Tear This Folly From My Heart, Though Every Fibre Bleed As I Rend It Away!