Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the radiant sun, Is Nature's eye.
Honor is but an empty bubble.
And nobler is a limited command, Given by the love of all your native land, Than a successive title, long and dark, Drawn from the mouldy rolls of Noah's Ark.
Be secret and discreet; the fairy favors are lost when not concealed.
The World to Bacon does not only owe it's present knowledge, but its future too.