Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At

What Name To Call Thee By, O Virgin Fair, I Know Not, For Thy Looks Are Not Of Earth And More Than Mortal Seems Thy Countenances

Love Is The Crowning Grace Of Humanity.

Alack Our Life, So Beautiful To See, With How Much Ease Life Losest, In A Day, What Many Years With Pain And Toil Amassed!

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

How Quick The Old Woe Follows A Little Bliss!