The Muses Were Dumb While Apollo Lectured.

Oft In The Stilly Night, Ere Slumber's Chain Has Bound Me, Fond Memory Brings The Light Of Other Days Around Me; The Smiles, The Tears, Of Boyhood's Years, The Words Of Love Then Spoken; The Eyes That Shone Now Dimmed And Gone, The Cheerful Hearts Now Broken.

Not If I Know Myself At All.

Satire Does Not Look Pretty Upon A Tombstone.

My Only Books Were Woman's Looks,- And Folly 's All They 've Taught Me.

Shut Not Thy Purse-strings Always Against Painted Distress.