Let Age, Not Envy, Draw Wrinkles On

The Long Habit Of Living Indisposeth Us For Dying.

For The World, I Count It Not An Inn, But A Hospital; And A Place Not To Live, But To Die In.

Rich With The Spoils Of Nature.

What Song The Syrens Sang, Or What Name Achilles Assumed When He Hid Himself Among Women, Though Puzzling Questions, Are Not Beyond All Conjecture.

Half Our Days We Pass In The Shadow Of The Earth; And The Brother Of Death Exacteth A Third Part Of Our Lives.