Hard Toil Can Roughen Form And Face,

He Is The Best Sailor Who Can Steer Within Fewest Points Of The Wind, And Exact A Motive Power Out Of The Greatest Obstacles.

One Or Two Of These Scoundrel Statesmen Should Be Shot Once A-year, Just To Keep The Others On Their Good Behavior.

Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land.

Thou And I Are But The Blind Instruments Of Some Irresistible Fatality, That Hurries Us Along, Like Goodly Vessels Driving Before The Storm, Which Are Dashed Against Each Other, And So Perish.

The Chain Of Friendship, However Bright, Does Not Stand The Attrition Of Constant Close Contact.