E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain, Oft have I seen the war of winds contend, And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend, Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn, The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne, As light straw and rapid stubble fly In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.

Womankind Is ever a fickle and a changeful thing.

Who asks whether the enemy was defeated by strategy or valor?

Learn all from one thing. -Ab uno disce omnes

Then endure for a while, and live for a happier day!

Each man is led by his own liking.

Harsh necessity, and the newness of my kingdom, force me to do such things and to guard my frontiers everywhere.