Water Is The Mother Of The Vine,

He Who Has Mingled In The Fray Of Duty That The Brave Endure, Must Have Made Foes. If You Have None, Small Is The Work That You Have Done.

Tell Me, Ye Wingèd Winds That Round My Pathway Roar, Know Ye Not Some Spot Where Mortals Weep No More?

In Reading The History Of Nations, We Find That, Like Individuals, They Have Their Whims And Their Peculiarities, Their Seasons Of Excitement And Recklessness, When They Care Not What They Do. We Find That Whole Communities Suddenly Fix Their Minds Upon One Object And Go Mad In Its Pursuit; That Millions Of People Become Simultaneously Impressed With One Delusion, And Run After It, Till Their Attention Is Caught By Some New Folly More Captivating Than The First.

Three Causes Especially Have Excited The Discontent Of Mankind; And, By Impelling Us To Seek Remedies For The Irremediable, Have Bewildered Us In A Maze Of Madness And Error. These Are Death, Toil, And The Ignorance Of The Future.

Water Is The Mother Of The Vine, The Nurse And Fountain Of Fecundity, The Adorner And Refresher Of The World.