Death In Itself Is Nothing; But We

A Lively Faith Will Bear Aloft The Mind, And Leave The Luggage Of Good Works Behind.

For They Can Conquer Who Believe They Can.

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

My Love's A Noble Madness.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.