Home Is The Sacred Refuge Of Our

Whistling To Keep Myself From Being Afraid.

Be Fair, Or Foul, Or Rain, Or Shine, The Joys I Have Possessed, In Spite Of Fate, Are Mine. Not Heaven Itself Upon The Past Has Power; But What Has Been, Has Been, And I Have Had My Hour.

Rhyme Is The Rock On Which Thou Art To Wreck.

Long Pains, With Use Of Bearing, Are Half Eased.

Sculptors Are Obliged To Follow The Manners Of The Painters, And To Make Many Ample Folds, Which Are Unsufferable Hardness, And More Like A Rock Than A Natural Garment.