He Who Owns The Soil, Owns Up

A Creature Undefiled By The Taint Of The World, Unvexed By Its Injustice, Unwearied By Its Hollow Pleasures; A Being Fresh From The Source Of Light, With Something Of Its Universal Lustre In It. If Childhood Be This, How Holy The Duty To See That In Its Onward Growth It Shall Be No Other!

Duty, Though Set About By Thorns, May Still Be Made A Staff Supporting Even While It Tortures. Cast It Away, And, Like The Prophet's Wand, It Changes To A Snake.

Rogues Are Prone To Find Things Before They Are Lost.

Reputations, Like Beavers And Cloaks, Shall Last Some People Twice The Time Of Others.

Luck, Mere Luck May Make Even Madness Wisdom.