Fattened In Vice, So Callous And So

Time Glides With Undiscover'd Haste; The Future But A Length Behind The Past.

Repentance Is The Virtue Of Weak Minds.

A Brave Man Scorns To Quarrel Once A Day; Like Hectors In At Every Petty Fray.

A Lazy Frost, A Numbness Of The Mind.

What I Have Left Is From My Native Spring; I've Still A Heart That Swells, In Scorn Of Fate, And Lifts Me To My Banks.