Many Of Our Cares Are

Earth Walks On Earth, Glittering In Gold; Earth Goes To Earth, Sooner Than It Wold; Earth Builds On Earth, Palaces And Towers; Earth Says To Earth, Soon, All Shall Be Ours.

Commend Me To Sterling Honesty Though Clad In Rags.

Thou And I Are But The Blind Instruments Of Some Irresistible Fatality, That Hurries Us Along, Like Goodly Vessels Driving Before The Storm, Which Are Dashed Against Each Other, And So Perish.

Ambition Is No Cure For Love!

And Better Had They Ne'er Been Born, Who Read To Doubt, Or Read To Scorn.