Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

Not to ask is not be denied.

All habits gather by unseen degrees.

Whatever is, is in its causes just.

All, as they say, that glitters is not gold.