Many Suffer From The Incurable Disease Of

It Is But The Weak And Little Mind That Rejoices In Revenge

When Did Reason Ever Direct Our Desires Or Our Fears?

A Hairy Body, And Arms Stiff With Bristles, Give Promise Of A Manly Soul.

Of What Use Are Pedigrees, Or To Be Thought Of Noble Blood, Or The Display Of Family Portraits, O Ponticus?

Travelers With Naught Sing In The Robber's Face