On The King's Gate The

Wounded Vanity Knows When It Is Mortally Hurt; And Limps Off The Field, Piteous, All Disguises Thrown Away. But Pride Carries Its Banner To The Last.

Stain My Eyes As I May, On All Sides All Is Black.

O Month When They Who Love Must Love And Wed.

The New Is Older Than The Old; And Newest Friend Is Oldest Friend In This: That, Waiting Him, We Longest Grieved To Miss One Thing We Sought.

Most Men Call Fretting A Minor Fault, A Foible, And Not A Vice. There Is No Vice Except Drunkenness Which Can So Utterly Destroy The Peace, The Happiness Of A Hoe.