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Don't stay in bed, unless you can make money in bed.

Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by Death.

And friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And gone my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; He giveth His beloved sleep."

Thank God for grace, Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.

A woman's always younger than a man of equal years.

Light tomorrow with today.

The place is all awave with trees, Limes, myrtles, purple-beaded, Acacias having drunk the lees Of the night-dew, fain headed, And wan, grey olive-woods, which seem The fittest foliage for a dream.

Pray, pray, thou who also weepest,-- And the drops will slacken so; Weep, weep--and the watch thou keepest, With a quicker count will go. Think,--the shadow on the dial For the nature most undone, Marks the passing of the trial, Proves the presence of the sun.

Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

Deep violets, you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you, Without a thought disloyal.

Every wish Is like a prayer--with God.

You forget too much That every creature, female as the male, Stands single in responsible act and thought As also in birth and death.

A worthless woman! mere cold clay As all false things are! but so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware: I would not play her larcenous tricks To have her looks!

"Yes," I answered you last night; "No," this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

By the way, The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull out sight, Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, To put on when you're weary--or a stool To tumble over and vex you . . . curse that stool! Or else at best, a cushion where you lean And sleep, and dream of something we are not, But would be for your sake. Alas, alas! This hurts most, this . . . that, after all, we are paid The worth of our work, perhaps.

Get leave to work In this world,--'tis the best you get at all.

Let no one till his death Be called unhappy. Measure not the work Until the day's out and the labour done.

Free men freely work: Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease.

In this bad, twisted, topsy-turvy world, Where all the heaviest wrongs get uppermost.