All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their

Greatness Knows Itself.

He That Sleeps Feels Not The Tooth-ache

Either Our History Shall With Full Mouth Speak Freely Of Our Acts, Or Else Our Grave, Like Turkish Mute, Shall Have A Tongueless Mouth, Not Worshipped With A Waxen Epitaph.

With Love's Light Wings Did I O'er-perch These Walls, For Stony Limits Cannot Hold Love Out

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine, In This I Bury All Unkindness.