The Rich Have No More Of The

Commemoration Of John Donne, Priest, Poet, 1631 He Was The Word That Spake It; He Took The Bread And Brake It; And What That Word Did Make It I Do Believe, And Take It.

To Roam Giddily, And Be Everywhere But At Home, Such Freedom Doth A Banishment Become.

I Am Two Fools, I Know, For Loving, And For Saying So.

Festive Alcohol Sometimes Leads To An Excess Of Honesty.

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.