Art Quickens Nature; Care Will Make A

Conquer We Shall, But, We Must First Contend! It's Not The Fight That Crowns Us, But The End.

In Vain Our Labours Are, Whatsoe'er They Be, Unless God Gives The Benediction.

A Little Saint Best Fits A Little Shrine, A Little Prop Best Fits A Little Vine, As My Small Cruse Best Fits My Little Wine.

Love Is A Circle That Doth Restless Move In The Same Sweet Eternity Of Love.

Let Wealth Come In By Comely Thrift, And Not By Any Sordid Shift; 't Is Haste Makes Waste; Extremes Have Still Their Fault. Who Gripes Too Hard The Dry And Slipp'ry Sand, Holds None At All, Or Little, In His Hand.