Most Subject Is The Fattest Soil To

Give Thy Thoughts No Tongue.

The Brain May Devise Laws For The Blood, But A Hot Temper Leaps O'er A Cold Decree.

Silence Is Only Commendable In A Neat's Tongue Dried, And A Maid Not Vendible.

Oh, How This Spring Of Love Resembleth, The Uncertain Glory Of An April Day, Which Now Shows All Beauty Of The Sun, And By And By A Cloud Takes All Away

Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The Glorious Gold.