Pan Is Dead! Great Pan Is Dead!

Art Is Much, But Love Is More.

The Large White Owl That With Eye Is Blind, That Hath Sate For Years In The Old Tree Hollow, Is Carried Away In A Gust Of Wind.

Get Work, Get Work; Be Sure 'tis Better Than What You Work To Get.

Neither Love Me For Thine Own Dear Pity's Wiping My Cheeks Dry, A Creature Might Forget To Weep, Who Bore Thy Comfort Long, And Lose Thy Love, Thereby! But Love Me For Love's Sake, That Evermore Thou Mayst Love On, Through Love's Eternity.

This Race Is Never Grateful: From The First, One Fills Their Cup At Supper With Pure Wine, Which Back They Give At Cross-time On A Sponge, In Bitter Vinegar.