Visits Are Insatiable Devourers Of Time, And

All Flesh Is Grass. And All Its Glory Fades Like The Fair Flower Dishevell'd In The Wind; Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream; The Man We Celebrate Must Find A Tomb, And We That Worship Him, Ignoble Graves.

Spare Feast! A Radish And An Egg.

Man In Society Is Like A Flow'r, Blown In Its Native Bed. 'tis There Alone His Faculties Expanded In Full Bloom Shine Out, There Only Reach Their Proper Use.

Ye Therefore Who Love Mercy, Teach Your Sons To Love It, Too.

Remorse Begets Reform.