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Fowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.

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Force Happiness Land Winter

Bagwalas

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And write whatever Time shall bring to pass With pens of adamant on plates of brass.
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He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
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Long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased.
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All objects lose by too familiar a view.
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Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
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Swift was the race, but short the time to run.
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Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.
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The sooner you treat your son as a man, the sooner he will be one.
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Old as I am, for ladies’ love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
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