And Heaven, That Every Virtue Bears In

For Rarely Are Sons Similar To Their Fathers: Most Are Worse, And A Few Are Better Than Their Fathers.

Is He Not Sacred, Even To The Gods, The Wandering Man Who Comes In Weariness?

Anger, Which, Far Sweeter Than Trickling Drops Of Honey, Rises In The Bosom Of A Man Like Smoke.

It Is No Bad Thing To Be A King-to See One's House Enriched And One's Authority Enhanced.

But Sure The Eye Of Time Beholds No Name, So Blest As Thine In All The Rolls Of Fame.