It Is Medicine, Not Poison, I Offer

With A Clear Sky, A Bright Sun, And A Gentle Breeze, You Will Have Friends In Plenty; But Let Fortune Frown, And The Firmament Be Overcast, And Then Your Friends Will Prove Like The Strings Of The Lute, Of Which You Will Tighten Ten Before You Find One That Will Bear The Stretch And Keep The Pitch.

It Is Not I Who Die, When I Die, But My Sin And Misery.

The Searcher's Eye Not Seldom Finds More Than He Wished To Find.

The Real Beggar Is Indeed The True And Only King.

The Superstition In Which We Were Brought Up Never Loses Its Power Over Us, Even After We Understand It.