If You Have A Bald Head Don't

Sloth, Like Rust, Consumes Faster Than Labor Wears, While The Used Key Is Always Bright.

Women Are Books, And Men The Readers Be, Who Sometimes In Those Books Erratas See; Yet Oft The Reader's Raptured With Each Line, Fair Print And Paper, Fraught With Sense Divine; Tho' Some, Neglectful, Seldom Care To Read, And Faithful Wives No More Than Bibles Heed. Are Women Books? Says Hodge, Then Would Mine Were An Almanack, To Change Her Every Year.

I Have Thought That Wild Flowers Might Be The Alphabet Of Angels, — Whereby They Write On Hills And Fields Mysterious Truths, Which It Is Not Given Our Fallen Nature To Understand.

The Sleeping Fox Catches No Poultry.

The Same Man Cannot Be Both Friend And Flatterer.