Men are suspicious; prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.

My soul I'll pour into thee.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.

It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.

I do love I know not what; Sometimes this, and sometimes that.

But ne'er the rose without the thorn.

A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.