Men, Like Bullets, Go Farthest

The Darkness Of Death Is Like The Evening Twilight; It Makes All Objects Appear More Lovely To The Dying.

Memory, Wit, Fancy, Acuteness, Cannot Grow Young Again In Old Age, But The Heart Can.

A Variety Of Nothing Is Superior To A Monotony Of Something.

Joys Are Our Wings, Sorrows Our Spurs.

The Last, Best Fruit Which Comes To Late Perfection, Even In The Kindliest Soul, Is Tenderness Toward The Hard, Forbearance Toward The Unforbearing, Warmth Of Heart Toward The Cold, Philanthropy Toward The Misanthropic.