Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

In an active life is sown the seed of wisdom... And age, if it has not esteem, has nothing.

Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.

As soon as we have found the key of life, it opens the gates of death.

The spirit walks of every day deceased.

Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."