Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

He That Will Have A Cake Out Of The Wheat Must Tarry The Grinding.

But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

For Here, I Hope, Begins Our Lasting Joy.

I Have Lived Long Enough. My Way Of Life Is To Fall Into The Sere, The Yellow Leaf, And That Which Should Accompany Old Age, As Honor, Love, Obedience, Troops Of Friends I Must Not Look To Have.

Me, Poor Man, My Library Was Dukedom Large Enough.