Our Lives Are But Our Marches To

You Are No Better Than You Should Be.

It Is More Noble By Silence To Avoid An Injury Than By Argument To Overcome It.

Who Doubting Tyranny, And Fainting Under Fortune's False Lottery, Desperately Run To Death, For Dread Of Death; That Soul's Most Stout, That, Bearing All Mischance, Dares Last It Out.

But What Is Past My Help Is Past My Care.

Grace Comes Often Clad In The Dusky Robe Of Desolation.