Gray hairs are death's blossoms.
Man is made of ordinary things, and habit is his nurse.
Historians are prophets with their face turned backward.
Posterity weaves no garlands for imitators.
Rigor pushed too far is sure to miss its aim, however good, as the bow snaps that is bent too stiffly.
Thus Arm in Arm with thee I dare defy my century into the lists.