Wealth Cannot Make A Life, But Love.

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.

The Body Is The Soul's Poor House Or Home, Whose Ribs The Laths Are And Whose Flesh The Loam.

T Is The Will That Makes The Action Good Or Ill.

Tears Are The Noble Language Of The Eye.

Fair Daffodils, We Weep To See You Haste Away So Soon: As Yet The Early-rising Sun Has Not Attained His Noon.