Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I

Opinion's But A Fool, That Makes Us Scan The Outward Habit By The Inward Man.

All's Well That Ends Well; Still The Fine's The Crown. Whate'er The Course, The End Is The Renown.

Roses Have Thorns, And Silver Fountains Mud; Clouds And Eclipses Stain Both Moon And Sun, And Loathsome Canker Lies In Sweetest Bud. All Men Make Faults.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On.

Your Wisdom Is Consum'd In Confidence. Do Not Go Forth To-day.