For Here, I Hope, Begins Our Lasting

God Shall Be My Hope, My Stay, My Guide And Lantern To My Feet.

[thine] Face Is Not Worth Sunburning.

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens, To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners: So That If We Will Plant Nettles, Or Sow Lettuce, Set Hyssop And Weed Up Tine, Supply It With One Gender Of Herbs, Or Distract It With Many, Either To Have It Sterile With Idleness, Or Manured With Industry, Why, The Power And Corrigible Authority Of This Lies In Our Wills.

The Gaudy, Blabbing, And Remorseful Day Is Crept Into The Bosom Of The Sea.

The Hand Of Little Employment Hath The Daintier Sense.