Fortune is the rod of the weak, and the staff of the brave.

Through aisles of long-drawn centuries my spirit walks in thought.

As life runs on, the road grows strange with faces new - and near the end. The milestones into headstones change, Neath every one a friend.

My soul is not a palace of the past.

The realm of death seems an enemy's country to most men, on whose shores they are loathly driven by stress of weather; to the wise man it is the desired port where he moors his bark gladly, as in some quiet haven of the Fortunate Isles; it is the golden west into which his sun sinks, and, sinking, casts back a glory upon the leaden cloud-tack which had darkly besieged his day.

The wisest man could ask no more of fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the many, honored by the few; Nothing to court in Church, or World, or State, But inwardly in secret to be great.

Whatever you may be sure of, be sure of this, that you are dreadfully like other people.