Chess Is A Sad Waste Of Brains.

In Man's Most Dark Extremity Oft Succour Dawns From Heaven.

Warriors! And Where Are Warriors Found, If Not On Martial Britain's Ground? And Who, When Waked With Note Of Fire, Love More Than They The British Lyre?

When True Friends Meet In Adverse Hour; 'tis Like A Sunbeam Through A Shower. A Watery Way An Instant Seen, The Darkly Closing Clouds Between.

Silence, Maiden; Thy Tongue Outruns Thy Discretion.

Contentions Fierce, Ardent, And Dire, Spring From No Petty Cause.