Ride The Air In Whirlwind.

The Earth, Though In Comparison Of Heaven So Small, Nor Glistering, May Of Solid Good Contain More Plenty Than The Sun, That Barren Shines.

Accuse Not Nature: She Hath Done Her Part; Do Thou But Thine.

Neither Prosperity Nor Empire Nor Heaven Can Be Worth Winning At The Price Of A Virulent Temper, Bloody Hands, An Anguished Spirit, And A Vain Hatred Of The Rest Of The World.

A Grateful Mind/ By Owing Owes Not, But Still Pays, At Once/ Indebted And Discharg'd.

Morn, Wak'd By The Circling Hours, With Rosy Hand Unbarr'd The Gates Of Light.