Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The soul that rises with us, our life''s star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.
Death and taxes and childbirth! There''s never any convenient time for any of them. - Margaret Mitchell Gone with the wind Nobility is not a birthright. It is defined by one''s actions.
Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?