Lovers Ever Run Before The

Well, Every One Can Master A Grief But He That Has It.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

There Is Not One Wise Man In Twenty That Will Praise Himself.

Tears Water Our Growth.

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.