As Long As The Fates Permit, Live

The Rose Is Fairest When 't Is Budding New, And Hope Is Brightest When It Dawns From Fears. The Rose Is Sweetest Wash'd With Morning Dew, And Love Is Loveliest When Embalm'd In Tears.

Though Varying Wishes, Hopes, And Fears, Fever'd The Progress Of These Years, Yet Now, Days, Weeks, And Months But Seem The Recollection Of A Dream.

The Pith Of Conversation Does Not Consist In Exhibiting Your Own Superior Knowledge On Matters Of Small Consequence, But In Enlarging, Improving And Correcting The Information You Possess By The Authority Of Others.

Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land.

Oh, Poverty Parts Good Company.