Discourse, The Sweeter Banquet Of

I Only Hope Those Rumors I Hear About What Goes On In Prison Are Greatly Exaggerated.

Generations Of Men Are Like The Leaves. In Winter, Winds Blow Them Down To Earth, But Then, When Spring Season Comes Again, The Budding Wood Grows More. And So With Men: One Generation Grows, Another Dies Away.

I Should Rather Labor As Another's Serf, In The Home Of A Man Without Fortune, One Whose Livelihood Was Meager, Than Rule Over All The Departed Dead.

There Is A Time For Many Words, And There Is Also A Time For Sleep.

The Best Things Beyond Their Measure Cloy.