But Sure The Eye Of

A Decent Boldness Ever Meets With Friends.

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.

Few Sons Attain The Praise Of Their Great Sires And Most Their Sires Disgrace.

His Descent Was Like Nightfall.

Now From The Smooth Deep Ocean-stream The Sun Began To Climb The Heavens, And With New Rays Smote The Surrounding Fields.