The Path Is Smooth That

We See Which Way The Stream Of Time Doth Run.

I Have A Kind Soul That Would Give You Thanks. And Knows Not How To Do It But With Tears.

Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water, Which Never Ceaseth To Enlarge Itself, Till, By Broad Spreading, It Disperse To Naught.

Thank Me No Thankings, Nor Proud Me No Prouds.

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.