Time Does Not Have The

Enjoy The Honey-heavy Dew Of Slumber.

Affection Is A Coal That Must Be Cooled; Else, Suffered, It Will Set The Heart On Fire.

My Cousin's A Fool, And Thou Art Another.

A Jest's Prosperity Lies In The Ear Of Him That Hears It, Never In The Tongue Of Him That Makes It.

Though Now This Grained Face Of Mine Be Hid In Sap-consuming Winter's Drizzled Snow, And All The Conduits Of My Blood Froze Up, Yet Hath My Night Of Life Some Memory, My Wasting Lamps Some Fading Glimmer Left, My Dull Deaf Ears A Little Use To Hear.