It Is A Coal From God's Altar

Inquire Often, But Judge Rarely, And Thou Wilt Not Often Be Mistaken.

Not To Be Provok'd Is Best: But If Mov'd, Never Correct Till The Fume Is Spent; For Every Stroke Our Fury Strikes, Is Sure To Hit Our Selves At Last.

No Pain, No Palm; No Thorns, No Throne; No Gall, No Glory; No Cross, No Crown.

That Plenty Should Produce Either Covetousness Or Prodigality Is A Perversion Of Providence; And Yet The Generality Of Men Are The Worse For Their Riches.

Let Us Try What Love Will Do.