Well I Sup And Well I Dine,

Give Me A Kiss, And To That Kiss A Score; Then To That Twenty, Add A Hundred More: A Thousand To That Hundred: So Kiss On, To Make That Thousand Up A Million. Treble That Million, And When That Is Done, Let's Kiss Afresh, As When We First Begun.

The Body Is The Soul's Poor House Or Home, Whose Ribs The Laths Are And Whose Flesh The Loam.

Conquer We Shall, But, We Must First Contend! It's Not The Fight That Crowns Us, But The End.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.

Let My Muse Fail Of Thy Former Helps, And Only Use Her Inadulterate Strength. What's Done By Me Hereafter Shall Smell Of The Lamp, Not Thee.