The Apparel Oft Proclaims The Man.

Thou Detestable Maw, Thou Womb Of Death.

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head; Not Decked With Diamonds And Indian Stones, Nor To Be Seen: My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown It Is That Seldom Kings Enjoy.

We Suffer A Lot The Few Things We Lack And We Enjoy Too Little The Many Things We Have.

What Freezings I Have Felt, What Dark Days Seen, What Old December's Bareness Everywhere!

To Be Generous, Guiltless, And Of A Free Disposition Is To Take Those Things For Bird-bolts That You Deem Cannon-bullets.