Gray Hairs Are Death's Blossoms.

Accursed Be He Who Plays With The Devil.

We Are Too Prone To Find Fault; Let Us Look For Some Of The Perfections.

O'er Ocean, With A Thousand Masts, Sails Forth The Stripling Bold- One Boat, Hard Rescued From The Deep, Draws Into Port The Old!

Why Should I Deem Myself To Be A Chisel, When I Could Be The Artist?

Friends Show Me What I Can Do, Foes Teach Me What I Should Do.