Weigh The Meaning And Look

No Simple Word That Shall Be Uttered At Our Mirthful Board, Shall Make Us Sad Next Morning; Or Affright The Liberty That We'll Enjoy To-night.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

For He That Once Is Good, Is Ever Great.

A Lily Of A Day Is Fairer Far In May, Although It Fall And Die That Night, It Was The Plant And Flower Of Light. In Small Proportions We Just Beauties See, And In Short Measures Life May Perfect Be.

Greatness Of Name, In The Father, Ofttimes Helps Not Forth, But Overwhelms The Son: They Stand Too Near One Another. The Shadow Kills The Growth.