Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray

The French Courage Proceeds From Vanity

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

Oh, Nature's Noblest Gift, My Grey Goose Quill, Slave Of My Thoughts, Obedient To My Will, Torn From The Parent Bird To Form A Pen, That Mighty Instrument Of Little Men.

The Very Best Of Vineyards Is The Cellar

Frienship Is Eros...without Wings