Blown Roses Hold Their Sweetness To The

Maintain Your Post: That's All The Fame You Need; For 'tis Impossible You Should Proceed.

Love And Time With Reverence Use, Treat Them Like A Parting Friend: Nor The Golden Gifts Refuse Which In Youth Sincere They Send: For Each Year Their Price Is More, And They Less Simple Than Before.

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

Thou Tyrant, Tyrant Jealousy, Thou Tyrant Of The Mind!

From Plots And Treasons Heaven Preserve My Years, But Save Me Most From My Petitioners. Unsatiate As The Barren Womb Or Grave; God Cannot Grant So Much As They Can Crave.