There's Daggers In Men's Smiles.

The Love Of Wicked Men Converts To Fear; That Fear To Hate, And Hate Turns One Or Both To Worthy Danger And Deserved Death.

Had It Pleas'd Heaven To Try Me With Affliction * * * I Should Have Found In Some Place Of My Soul A Drop Of Patience.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

He That Loves To Be Flattered Is Worthy O' The Flatterer.

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension.