Journeys End In Lovers Meeting.

Thou Ever Young, Fresh, Lov'd, And Delicate Wooer, Whose Blush Doth Thaw The Consecrated Snow

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.

Farewell! God Knows When We Shall Meet Again.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Light Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.

Not That I Loved Caesar Less, But That I Loved Rome More.