And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds

Honest labour bears a lovely face.

I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman.

A wise man poor Is like a sacred book that’s never read,— To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead. This age thinks better of a gilded fool Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom’s school.

To add to golden numbers golden numbers.

The best of men That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer; A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true gentleman that ever breathed.

This principle is old, but true as fate,— Kings may love treason, but the traitor hate.