Travelers Must Be Content.

Oh, How This Spring Of Love Resembleth, The Uncertain Glory Of An April Day, Which Now Shows All Beauty Of The Sun, And By And By A Cloud Takes All Away

There's Neither Honesty, Manhood, Nor Good Fellowship In Thee.

For To Define True Madness, What Is't But To Be Nothing Else But Mad?

I Am A Feather For Each Wind That Blows

I Must Be Gone And Live, Or Stay And Die.