Ajax The Great Himself A Host.

If They Think I'm Going To Stop At That Stop Sign, They're Mistaken!

A Man Dies Still If He Has Done Nothing, As One Who Has Done Much.

We Battle On In Words, As Always, Mere Words, And What's The Cure? We Cannot Find A Thing.

Like Leaves On Trees The Race Of Man Is Found,- Now Green In Youth, Now Withering On The Ground; Another Race The Following Spring Supplies: They Fall Successive, And Successive Rise.

Death Submits To No One.