Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates.

All's Well That Ends Well; Still The Fine's The Crown. Whate'er The Course, The End Is The Renown.

Jesters Do Oft Prove Prophets.

The Icy Precepts Of Respect.

Eternity Was In Our Lips And Eyes, Bliss In Our Brows' Bent; None Our Parts So Poor But Was A Race Of Heaven.