Home Is The Sacred Refuge

Death Only This Mysterious Truth Unfolds, The Mighty Soul How Small A Body Holds.

Tis Fate That Flings The Dice, And As She Flings Of Kings Makes Peasants, And Of Peasants Kings.

Dreams Are But Interludes, Which Fancy Makes; When Monarch Reason Sleeps, This Mimic Wakes.

Let Grace And Goodness Be The Principal Loadstone Of Thy Affections.

To Die For Faction Is A Common Evil, But To Be Hanged For Nonsense Is The Devil.