A Man May Fish With The Worm

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

Did He So Often Lodge In Open Field, In Winter's Cold And Summer's Parching Heat, To Conquer France, His True Inheritance?

Cease To Lament For That Thou Canst Not Help; And Study Help For That Which Thou Lamentest.

My Purpose Is, Indeed, A Horse Of That Color.

Anger Is Like A Full Hot Horse, Who Being Allowed His Way, Self-mettle Tires Him.