Were All The Letters Sun, I Could

Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those Who Win.

More Can I Bear Than You Dare Execute.

He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum Weary Of All, Shall Want Some.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

Beauty Is But A Vain And Doubtful Good; A Shining Gloss That Fadeth Suddenly; A Flower That Dies When It Begins To Bud; A Doubtful Good, A Gloss, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour.