Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue, But

Yet Once More, O Ye Laurels, And Once More Ye Myrtles Brown, With Ivy Never Sere, I Come To Pluck Your Berries Harsh And Crude, And With Forced Fingers Rude Shatter Your Leaves Before The Mellowing Year.

Peace Hath Her Victories, No Less Renowned Than War.

What Am I Pondering, You Ask? So Help Me God, Immortality.

Though We Take From A Covetous Man All His Treasure, He Has Yet One Jewel Left; You Cannot Bereave Him Of His Covetousness.

God Made Thee Perfect, Not Immutable.