Our Lives Are But Our Marches To

Envy, Like The Worm, Never Runs But To The Fairest Fruit; Like A Cunning Bloodhound, It Singles Out The Fattest Deer In The Flock.

Daisies Smell-less, Yet Most Quaint, And Sweet Thyme True, Primrose, First Born Child Of Ver, Merry Spring-time's Harbinger.

Our Lives Are But Our Marches To The Grave.

Bad's The Best Of Us.

The True Way To Gain Much, Is Never To Desire To Gain Too Much. He Is Not Rich That Possesses Much, But He That Covets No More; And He Is Not Poor That Enjoys Little, But He That Wants Too Much.