Check Disease In Its Approach.

Our Life Is Our Own To-day, To-morrow You Will Be Dust, A Shade, And A Tale That Is Told. Live Mindful Of Death; The Hour Flies.

Lives There The Man With Soul So Dead As To Disown The Wish To Merit The People's Applause, And Having Uttered Words Worthy To Be Kept In Cedar Oil To Latest Times, To Leave Behind Him Rhymes That Dread Neither Herrings Nor Frankincense.

Out Of Nothing Can Come, And Nothing Can Become Nothing.

We Consume Our Tomorrows Fretting About Our Yesterdays.

Is Any Man Free Except The One Who Can Pass His Life As He Pleases?