Never Anger Made Good Guard For Itself.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

Time, Whose Millioned Accidents Creep In Betwixt Vows, And Change Decrees Of Kings, Tan Sacred Beauty, Blunt The Sharpest Intents, Divert Strong Minds To The Course Of Altering Things.

Men Should Be What They Seem; Or Those That Be Not, Would They Might Seem None!.

Travelers Must Be Content.

My Glass Shall Not Persuade Me I Am Old, So Long As Youth And Thou Are Of One Date; But When In Thee Time's Furrows I Behold, Then Look I Death My Days Should Expiate.