I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.

Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

Every man, for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all Honor.

Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.