Restless At Home, And Ever Prone To

Time Glides With Undiscover'd Haste; The Future But A Length Behind The Past.

Content With Poverty, My Soul I Arm; And Virtue, Though In Rags, Will Keep Me Warm.

Shakespeare Was Naturally Learned; He Needed Not The Spectacles Of The Books To Read Nature; He Looked Inward, And Found Her There.

All, As They Say, That Glitters Is Not Gold.

And Plenty Makes Us Poor.