Men Are But Children Of A Larger

Heroic Poetry Has Ever Been Esteemed The Greatest Work Of Human Nature.

The Perverseness Of My Fate Is Such That He's Not Mine Because He's Mine Too Much.

We Can Never Be Grieved For Their Miseries Who Are Thoroughly Wicked, And Have Thereby Justly Called Their Calamities On Themselves.

What, Start At This! When Sixty Years Have Spread. Their Grey Experience O'er Thy Hoary Head? Is This The All Observing Age Could Gain? Or Hast Thou Known The World So Long In Vain?

Happy The Man, And Happy He Alone, He, Who Can Call Today His Own.