The Person Lives Twice Who Lives The

The Body Is The Soul's Poor House Or Home, Whose Ribs The Laths Are And Whose Flesh The Loam.

It Is The End That Crowns Us, Not The Fight.

Some Asked Me Where The Rubies Grew, And Nothing I Did Say; But With My Finger Pointed To The Lips Of Julia.

If Little Labour, Little Are Our Gains: Man's Fortunes Are According To His Pains.

Our Present Tears Here, Not Our Present Laughter Are But The Handsells Of Our Joys Hereafter.