At Christmas, I No More Desire A

I Am A True Laborer: I Earn That I Eat, Get That I Wear, Owe No Man Hate, Envy No Man's Happiness, Glad Of Other Men's Good, Content With My Harm.

I Take Thee At Thy Word: Call Me But Love, And I'll Be New Baptized; Henceforth I Never Will Be Romeo.

Men's Faults Do Seldom To Themselves Appear.

Like The Lily That Once Was Mistress Of The Field And Flourished, I'll Hang My Head And Perish.

We Have Some Salt Of Our Youth In Us.