Thus Times Do Shift, Each Thing His

Happy Is The Bride That The Sun Shines On.

Let My Muse Fail Of Thy Former Helps, And Only Use Her Inadulterate Strength. What's Done By Me Hereafter Shall Smell Of The Lamp, Not Thee.

Gather Ye Rosebuds, While Ye May.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Attempt The End And Never Stand To Doubt; Nothing's So Hard, But Search Will Find It Out.