Our Lives Are But Our Marches To

Envy, Like The Worm, Never Runs But To The Fairest Fruit; Like A Cunning Bloodhound, It Singles Out The Fattest Deer In The Flock.

It Is More Noble By Silence To Avoid An Injury Than By Argument To Overcome It.

Nothing's So Dainty Sweet As Lovely Melancholy.

Grace Comes Often Clad In The Dusky Robe Of Desolation.

But What Is Past My Help Is Past My Care.