The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

Should All Despair That Have Revolted Wives, The Tenth Of Mankind Would Hang Themselves.

We Waste Our Lights In Vain, Like Lamps By Day.

I Have Lived Long Enough. My Way Of Life Is To Fall Into The Sere, The Yellow Leaf, And That Which Should Accompany Old Age, As Honor, Love, Obedience, Troops Of Friends I Must Not Look To Have.

Two Women Placed Together Makes Cold Weather.