He Who Dares Not (reason), Is A

My Thoughts Hold Mortal Strife, I Do Detest My Life, And With Lamenting Cries, Peace To My Soul To Bring, Oft Calls That Prince Which Here Doth Monarchize; But He, Grim-grinning King, Who Caitiffs Scorns And Doth The Blest Surprise, Late Having Deck'd With Beauty's Rose His Tomb, Disdains To Crop A Weed, And Will Not Come.

Put A Bridle On Thy Tongue; Set A Guard Before Thy Lips, Lest The Words Of Thine Own Mouth Destroy Thy Peace... On Much Speaking Cometh Repentance, But In Silence Is Safety.

What Sweet Delight A Quiet Life Affords.

He Who Dares Not (reason), Is A Slave.

Books Have That Strange Quality, That Being Of The Frailest And Tenderest Matter, They Outlast Brass, Iron And Marble.