Thus Aged Men, Full Loth And Slow,

Thou And I Are But The Blind Instruments Of Some Irresistible Fatality, That Hurries Us Along, Like Goodly Vessels Driving Before The Storm, Which Are Dashed Against Each Other, And So Perish.

We Often Praise The Evening Clouds, And Tints So Gay And Bold, But Seldom Think Upon Our God, Who Tinged These Clouds With Gold.

What I Have To Say Is Far More Important Than How Long My Eyelashes Are.

Although Too Much Of A Soldier Among Sovereigns, No One Could Claim With Better Right To Be A Sovereign Among Soldiers.

Spangling The Wave With Lights As Vain As Pleasures In The Vale Of Pain, That Dazzle As They Fade.