Every Man Is In Some Sort A

Think Not Because No Man Sees, Such Things Will Remain Unseen.

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

If A Woman Shows Too Often The Medusa's Head, She Must Not Be Astonished If Her Lover Is Turned Into Stone.

A Single Conversation Across The Table With A Wise Man Is Better Than Ten Years Mere Study Of Books.

Wisely Improve The Present. It Is Thine.