Reason saw not, till Faith sprung the Light.
Home is the sacred refuge of our life.
Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
Heaven be thanked, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage.
Tis Fate that flings the dice, And as she flings Of kings makes peasants, And of peasants kings.
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