There Is No Praise In

Death Darkens His Eyes, And Unplumes His Wings, Yet The Sweetest Song Is The Last He Sings: Live So, My Love, That When Death Shall Come, Swan-like And Sweet It May Waft Thee Home.

If We Are Not Ashamed To Think It, We Should Not Be Ashamed To Say It.

A Youth Of Sensuality And Intemperance Delivers Over To Old Age A Worn-out Body.

Justice Is The Crowning Glory Of The Virtues.

No One Sees What Is Before His Feet: They Scan The Tracks Of Heaven.