No one can hurry me down to Hades before my time, but if a man's hour is come, be he brave or be he coward, there is no escape for him when he has once been born.

Generations of men are like the leaves. In winter, winds blow them down to earth, but then, when spring season comes again, the budding wood grows more. And so with men: one generation grows, another dies away.

Few sons are like their fathers - many are worse, few better.

To-morrow we embark upon the boundless sea.

But he whose inborn worth his acts commend, Of gentle soul, to human race a friend.

Thou shalt not horn in on thy husbands racket

It is not right to glory in the slain