Many things impossible to thought have been by need to full perfection brought.
Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
None are so busy as the fool and the knave.
Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
Raw in the fields the rude militia swarms, Mouth without hands; maintained at vast expense, In peace a charge, in war a weak defence.