The one thet fust gits mad 's 'most ollers wrong. - James Russell Lowell

We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great,
Slow of faith how weak an arm may turn this iron helm of fate,
But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din,
List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave within,—
"They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin."

There is no good in arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.

By the light of burning martyrs, Christ, thy bleeding feet we track
Toiling up new Calv'ries ever with the cross that turns not back
New occasions teach new duties, time makes ancient good uncouth
We must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth