It Is The Wise Man's

Delight In Splendor Is No More Than Happiness With Little: For Both Have Their Appeal.

'twas But My Tongue, 'twas Not My Soul That Swore.

The Fountains Of Sacred Rivers Flow Upwards (i.e., Everything Is Turned Topsy Turvy).

It's Folly That Women Measure Their Happiness With The Pleasures Of The Bed, But They Do. And When The Pleasure Cools Or Their Man Goes Missing, All They Once Lived For Turns Dark And Hateful.

In Misfortune, Which Friend Remains A Friend?