My Love Is As A Fever, Longing

So Far Be Distant; And Good Night, Sweet Friend: Thy Love Ne'er Alter, Till They Sweet Life End

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

Yon Grey Lines That Fret The Clouds Are Messengers Of Day.

Every Man Has A Bag Hanging Before Him, In Which He Puts His Neighbour's Faults, And Another Behind Him In Which He Stows His Own.

Maids Want Nothing But Husbands, And When They Have Them, They Want Everything.