Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
All, as they say, that glitters is not gold.
I'm a little wounded, but I am not slain; I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I'll rise and fight again.
Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.