Successful Crimes Alone Are Justified.

None Would Live Past Years Again, Yet All Hope Pleasure In What Yet Remain; And, From The Dregs Of Life, Think To Receive, What The First Sprightly Running Could Not Give.

Farewell, Too Little, And Too Lately Known, Whom I Began To Think And Call My Own.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.

Trust On And Think To-morrow Will Repay; To-morrow's Falser Than The Former Day; Lies Worse; And While It Says, We Shall Be Blest With Some New Joys, Cuts Off What We Possest.

Music Is Inarticulate Poesy.