He That Sleeps Feels Not The Tooth-ache

Conscience Is A Blushing, Shamefaced Spirit Than Mutinies In A Man's Bosom; It Fills One Full Of Obstacles.

If Thou Engrossest All The Griefs Are Thine, Thou Robb'st Me Of A Moiety.

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

Ambition, The Soldier's Virtue, Rather Makes Choice Of Loss, Than Gain Which Darkens Him.

Good Things Should Be Praised.