The One Thing Finished In This Hasty

May Is A Pious Fraud Of The Almanac.

All The Beautiful Sentiments In The World Weigh Less Than A Single Lovely Action.

Now The Heart Is So Full That A Drop Overfills It; We Are Happy Now Because God Wills It.

How Little Inventiveness There Is In Man, Grave Copier Of Copies.

Some Kind Of Pace May Be Got Out Of The Eeriest Jade By The Near Prospect Of Oats; But The Thoroughbred Has The Spur In His Blood.