Fuss Is The Froth Of

To Attempt To Advise Conceited People Is Like Whistling Against The Wind.

When Was Ever Honey Made With One Bee In A Hive?

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.

She Stood Breast-high Amid The Corn Clasp'd By The Golden Light Of Morn, Like The Sweetheart Of The Sun, Who Many A Glowing Kiss Had Won.

No Sun, No Moon, No Morn, No Noon, No Dawn, No Dusk, No Proper Time Of Day, . . . . . . No Road, No Street, No T' Other Side The Way, . . . . . . No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Buds.