Talkers Are No Good Doers.

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

Now I Am Past All Comforts Here, But Prayer.

The Miserable Have No Other Medicine But Only Hope.

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.

Look, What Envious Streaks Do Lace The Severing Clouds In Yonder East! Night's Candles Are Burnt Out, And Jocund Day Stands Tip-toe On The Misty Mountain-tops.