And The Choice Goes By Forever 'twixt

The Dandelions And Buttercups Gild All The Lawn: The Drowsy Bee Stumbles Among The Clover Tops, And Summer Sweetens All To Me.

The Intellect Has Only One Failing, Which, To Be Sure, Is A Very Considerable One. It Has No Conscience.

No Man Can Produce Great Things Who Is Not Thoroughly Sincere In Dealing With Himself, Who Would Not Exchange The Finest Show For The Poorest Reality, Who Does Not So Love His Work That He Is Not Only Glad To Give Himself For It, But Finds Rather A Gain Than A Sacrifice In The Surrender.

He's True To God Who's True To Man.

There Is Nothing So Desperately Monotonous As The Sea, And I No Longer Wonder At The Cruelty Of Pirates.