Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

An Angel; Or, If Not, An Earthly Paragon.

Even Through The Hollow Eyes Of Death I Spy Life Peering.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

There Is Nothing Either Good Or Bad But Thinking Makes It So.

Fit For The Mountains And The Barbarous Caves, Where Manners Ne'er Were Preached.