I Happy Am, If Well With You.

Art Can Do Much, But This Maxim's Most Sure/a Weak Or Wounded Brain Admits No Cure.

I Prize Thy Love More Than Whole Mines Of Gold Or All The Riches That The East Doth Hold.

The Stones And Trees, Insensible To Time, / Nor Age Nor Wrinkle On Their Front Are Seen; / If Winter Come, And Greenness Then Do Fade / A Spring Returns, And They More Youthful Made; / But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains Where Once He's Laid.

Let Greeks Be Greeks, And Women What They Are.

My Hope And Treasure Lies Above