Fortime, Not Corydon, Hath Conquered Thee.

Joy Comes And Goes, Hope Ebbs And Flows Like The Wave; Change Doth Unknit The Tranquil Strength Of Men. Love Tends Life A Little Grace, A Few Sad Smiles; And Then, Both Are Laid In One Cold Place, In The Grave.

Truth Sits Upon The Lips Of Dying Men.

O Born In Days When Wits Were Fresh And Clear, And Life Ran Gaily As The Sparkling Thames; Before This Strange Disease Of Modern Life, With Its Sick Hurry, Its Divided Aims, Its Heads O'ertax'd, Its Palsied Hearts, Was Rife.

Nations Are Not Truly Great Solely Because The Individuals Composing Them Are Numerous, Free, And Active; But They Are Great When These Numbers, This Freedom, And This Activity Are Employed In The Service Of An Ideal Higher Than That Of An Ordinary Man Taken By Himself.

The Bent Of Our Time Is Towards Science, Towards Knowing Things As They Are.