Truly The Souls Of Men Are Full

A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In Anger.

People’s Good Deeds We Write In Water. The Evil Deeds Are Etched In Brass.

If Thou Wilt Lend This Money, Lend It Not As To Thy Friends; For When Did Friendship Take A Breed For Barren Metal Of His Friend?

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

Death Makes No Conquest Of This Conqueror: For Now He Lives In Fame, Though Not In Life.