The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying

Sustained And Soothed By An Unfaltering Trust, Approach Thy Grave, Like One Who Wraps The Drapery Of His Couch About Him, And Lies Down To Pleasant Dreams.

Remorse Is Virtue's Root; Its Fair Increase Is Fruits Of Innocence And Blessedness.

Maidens Hearts Are Always Soft: Would That Men's Were Truer!

Virtue Cannot Dwell With Slaves, Nor Reign O'er Those Who Cower To Take A Tyrant's Yoke.

Pain Dies Quickly, And Lets Her Weary Prisoners Go; The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign.