Lay this unto your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.

That friend a great man's ruin strongly checks, who rails into his belief all his defects.

See, the curse of children! In life they keep us frequently in tears, And in the cold grave leave us in pale fears.

Gold that buys health can never be ill spent, Nor hours laid out in harmless merriment.

I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history.

When we prohibit others from being different, we end up forfeiting our own right to Liberty.

Heaven fashioned us of nothing; and we strive to bring ourselves to nothing.