For A Quart Of Ale Is A

If I Could Write The Beauty Of Your Eyes And In Fresh Numbers Number All Your Graces, The Age To Come Would Say, 'this Poet Lies; Such Heavenly Touches Ne'er Touch'd Earthly Faces.'

Mean And Mighty, Rotting Together, Have One Dust.

Talking Isn't Doing. It Is A Kind Of Good Deed To Say Well; And Yet Words Are Not Deeds.

Honor, Riches, Marriage-blessing Long Continuance, And Increasing, Hourly Joys Be Still Upon You!

Kindness In Women, Not Their Beauteous Looks, Shall Win My Love.