Time, Waxing Old, Doth All Things Purify.

Ye Waves That O'er Th' Interminable Ocean Wreathe Your Crisped Smiles.

But I Will Place This Carefully Fed Pig Within The Crackling Oven; And, I Pray, What Nicer Dish Can E'er Be Given To Man.

Words Are The Physicians Of A Mind Diseased.

Pain Lays Not Its Touch Upon A Corpse.

Ah, Lives Of Men! When Prosperous They Glitter - Like A Fair Picture; When Misfortune Comes - A Wet Sponge At One Blow Has Blurred The Painting.