The Glorious Lamp Of Heaven, The Sun.

In Prayer The Lips Ne'er Act The Winning Part, Without The Sweet Concurrence Of The Heart.

Fair Daffodils, We Weep To See You Haste Away So Soon: As Yet The Early-rising Sun Has Not Attained His Noon.

Give, If Thou Can, An Alms; If Not, A Sweet And Gentle Word.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Gather Ye Rosebuds, While Ye May.