Still Are The Thoughts To Memory Dear.

The Rose Is Fairest When 't Is Budding New, And Hope Is Brightest When It Dawns From Fears. The Rose Is Sweetest Wash'd With Morning Dew, And Love Is Loveliest When Embalm'd In Tears.

Sleep The Sleep That Knows Not Breaking, Morn Of Toil, Nor Night Of Waking.

He That Would Soothe Sorrow Must Not Argue On The Vanity Of The Most Deceitful Hopes.

Silence, Maiden; Thy Tongue Outruns Thy Discretion.

Ambition Is No Cure For Love!