States Have Their Conversions And Periods As

Sweet Rose, Whose Hue, Angry And Brave, Bids The Rash Gazer Wipe His Eye, Thy Root Is Even In The Grave, And Thou Must Die.

My House, My House, Though Thou Art Small, Thou Art To Me The Escurial.

It Is Good To Hold The Asse By The Bridle.

Some Had Rather Lose Their Friend Then Their Jest.

The Soule Needs Few Things, The Body Many.