Your Praises Will Become Your Wages.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

Each Present Joy Or Sorrow Seems The Chief.

The Evil That Men Do Lives After Them; The Good Is Oft Interred With Their Bones.

Methinks Sometimes I Have No More Wit Than A Christian.

I Have Very Poor And Unhappy Brains For Drinking.