Never was patriot yet, but was a fool.

For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

Pity only on fresh objects stays, but with the tedious sight of woes decays.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Dead men tell no tales.

All habits gather by unseen degrees.

For all have not the gift of martyrdom.