Death Is A Sleep That Ends Our

It May Be Only Glory That We Seek Here, But I Persuade Myself That, As Long As We Remain Here, That Is Right. Another Glory Awaits Us In Heaven And He Who Reaches There Will Not Wish Even To Think Of Earthly Fame.

Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At Best But An Empty Renown.

Nothing Mortal Is Enduring, And There Is Nothing Sweet Which Does Not Presently End In Bitterness.

Hope Is Incredible To The Slave Of Grief.

The Aged Love What Is Practical While Impetuous Youth Longs Only For What Is Dazzling.