Sweet Is Old Wine In Bottles, Ale

So The Struck Eagle, Stretch'd Upon The Plain, No More Through Rolling Clouds To Soar Again, View'd His Own Feather On The Fatal Dart, And Wing'd The Shaft That Quiver'd In His Heart.

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

No Words Suffice The Secret Soul To Show, For Truth Denies All Eloquence To Woe.

Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

O Gold! I Still Prefer Thee Unto Paper, Which Makes Bank Credit Like A Bark Of Vapour.