She Feared No Danger, For She Knew

We Must Beat The Iron While It Is Hot, But We May Polish It At Leisure.

None Would Live Past Years Again, Yet All Hope Pleasure In What Yet Remain; And, From The Dregs Of Life, Think To Receive, What The First Sprightly Running Could Not Give.

As Poetry Is The Harmony Of Words, So Music Is That Of Notes.

Resolved To Ruin Or To Rule The State.

None But The Brave Deserve The Fair.