Love Is A Child That Talks In

Pity Only On Fresh Objects Stays, But With The Tedious Sight Of Woes Decays.

When He Spoke, What Tender Words He Used! So Softly, That Like Flakes Of Feathered Snow, They Melted As They Fell.

Even Kings But Play; And When Their Part Is Done, Some Other, Worse Or Better, Mounts The Throne.

For Every Inch That Is Not Fool, Is Rogue.

Zeal, The Blind Conductor Of The Will.