Tell Me, O Muse, Of Travellers Far

Hateful To Me As Are The Gates Of Hell, Is He Who, Hiding One Thing In His Heart, Utters Another.

The Man Does Better Who Runs From Disaster Than He Who Is Caught By It.

When You're In My House You Shall Do As I Do And Believe Who I Believe In. So Bart Butter Your Bacon.

You Ought Not To Practice Childish Ways, Since You Are No Longer That Age.

I, For One, Know Of No Sweeter Sight For A Man's Eyes Than His Own Country.