Our Lives Are But Our Marches To

Let Us Have A Care Not To Disclose Our Hearts To Those Who Shut Up Theirs Against Us.

Daisies Smell-less, Yet Most Quaint, And Sweet Thyme True, Primrose, First Born Child Of Ver, Merry Spring-time's Harbinger.

There's Nothing That Allays An Angry Mind So Soon As A Sweet Beauty.

Envy, Like The Worm, Never Runs But To The Fairest Fruit; Like A Cunning Bloodhound, It Singles Out The Fattest Deer In The Flock.

Those Have Most Power To Hurt Us, That We Love.