In The Stars Is Written

The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

For Thogh We Slepe, Or Wake, Or Rome, Or Ryde, Ay Fleeth The Tyme; It Nyl No Man Abyde.

And So It Is In Politics, Dear Brother, Each For Himself Alone, There Is No Other.

This Flour Of Wifly Patience.

A Yokel Mind Loves Stories From Of Old, Being The Kind It Can Repeat And Hold.