Thou Hast Most Traitorously Corrupted The Youth

In Winter's Tedious Nights Sit By The Fire With Good Old Folks, And Let Them Tell Thee Tales Of Woeful Ages, Long Ago Betid

For Though The Camomile, The More It Is Trodden On The Faster It Grows, Yet Youth, The More It Is Wasted, The Sooner It Wears.

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.

He That Is Robbed, Not Wanting What Is Stolen, Him Not Know T, And He's Not Robbed At All.

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men.