The Yeare Doth Nothing Else But Open

The Ofspring Of Those That Are Very Young, Or Very Old, Lasts Not.

Sorrow Was All My Soul; I Scarce Believed, Till Grief Did Tell Me Roundly, That I Lived.

The Charges Of Building And Making Of Gardens Are Unknowne.

Science Stands, A Too Competant Servant, Behind Her Wrangling Underbred Masters, Holding Out Resources, Devices, And Remedies They Are Too Stupid To Use. ... And On Its Material Side, A Modern Utopia Must Needs Present These Gifts As Taken.

Whether Shall The Oxe Goe, Where He Shall Not Labour?