To Labour Is The Lot Of Man

A Generous Friendship No Cold Medium Knows, Burns With One Love, With One Resentment Glows; One Should Our Interests And Our Passions Be, My Friend Must Hate The Man That Injures Me.

Don't Mess With The Dead, Boy, They Have Eerie Powers.

By Their Own Follies They Perished, The Fools.

All Men Owe Honor To The Poets - Honor And Awe; For They Are Dearest To The Muse Who Puts Upon Their Lips The Ways Of Life.

Not Two Strong Men The Enormous Weight Could Raise,- Such Men As Live In These Degenerate Days.