So Well Thy Words Become Thee As

The Fortune Of Us That Are The Moon's Men Doth Ebb And Flow Like The Sea, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By The Moon.

Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet She Will Plod.

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

Love Sees With The Heart And Not With Mind.

I Shall Show The Cinders Of My Spirits Through The Ashes Of My Chance.