'tis Virtue, And Not Birth That Makes

Our Acts Our Angels Are, For Good Or Ill, Our Fatal Shadows That Walk By Us Still.

The Coward's Weapon, Poison.

Weep No More, Nor Sigh, Nor Groan, Sorrow Calls No Time That 's Gone; Violets Plucked, The Sweetest Rain Makes Not Fresh Nor Grow Again.

That Soul That Can Be Honest Is The Only Perfect Man.

'tis Virtue, And Not Birth That Makes Us Noble: Great Actions Speak Great Minds, And Such Should Govern.