None But The Brave Deserve The Fair.

Love Is Not In Our Choice But In Our Fate.

If We From Wealth To Poverty Descend, Want Gives To Know The Flatterer From The Friend.

Confidence Is The Feeling We Have Before Knowing All The Facts

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.