A Pittifull Looke Askes Enough.

A Broken Altar, Lord, Thy Servant Rears, Made Of A Heart, And Cemented With Tears.

Let Thy Mind Still Be Bent, Still Plotting, Where, And When, And How Thy Business May Be Done. Slackness Breeds Worms; But The Sure Traveller, Though He Alights Sometimes Still Goeth On.

He That Hath No Hony In His Pot, Let Him Have It In His Mouth.

God, And Parents, And Our Master, Can Never Be Requited.

A Sad, Wise Valor Is The Brave Complexion.