We Credit Most Our Sight; One Eye

Fair Daffodils, We Weep To See You Haste Away So Soon: As Yet The Early-rising Sun Has Not Attained His Noon.

In Prayer The Lips Ne'er Act The Winning Part, Without The Sweet Concurrence Of The Heart.

Tis Not The Food, But The Content, That Makes The Table's Merriment.

Gather Ye Rose-buds While Ye May, Old Time Is Still A Flying: And This Same Flower That Smiles To Day, Tomorrow Will Be Dying.

In Vain Our Labours Are, Whatsoe'er They Be, Unless God Gives The Benediction.