A Gen'rous Heart Repairs A Sland'rous Tongue.

Now Hollow Fires Burn Out To Black, And Lights Are Fluttering Low: Square Your Shoulders, Lift Your Pack And Leave Your Friends And Go. O Never Fear, Lads, Naught's To Dread, Look Not To Left Nor Right: In All The Endless Road You Tread There's Nothing But The Night.

What Reason Weaves, By Passion Is Undone.

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense. There Are Forty Men Of Wit For One Man Of Sense; And He That Will Carry Nothing About Him But Gold, Will Be Every Day At A Loss For Want Of Readier Change.

Not To Go Back Is Somewhat To Advance, And Men Must Walk, At Least, Before They Dance.

Act Well Your Part, There All The Honour Lies.