Toil For The Brave! The Brave That

Could He With Reason Murmur At His Case, Himself Sole Author Of His Own Disgrace?

Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave; A Sepulchre In Which The Living Lie, Where All Good Qualities Grow Sick And Die

England, With All Thy Faults I Love Thee Still, My Country!

Vice Stings Us Even In Our Pleasures, But Virtue Consoles Us Even In Our Pains.

There Goes The Parson, Oh Illustrious Spark! And There, Scarce Less Illustrious, Goes The Clerk.