It Is Not Work That Kills Men;

I Never Know How To Worship Until I Know How To Love; And To Love I Must Have Something That I Can Put My Arms Around, — Something That, Touching My Heart, Shall Leave Not The Chill Of Ice, But The Warmth Of Summer.

It Is A Bitter Thought To An Avaricious Spirit That By And By All These Accumulations Must Be Left Behind. We Can Only Carry Away From This World The Flavor Of Our Good Or Evil Deeds.

A Traitor Is Good Fruit To Hang From The Boughs Of The Tree Of Liberty.

They Hover As A Cloud Of Witnesses Above This Nation.

I Have Great Hope Of A Wicked Man, Slender Hope Of A Mean One. A Wicked Man May Be Converted And Become A Prominent Saint. A Mean Man Ought To Be Converted Six Or Seven Times, One Right After The Other, To Give Him A Fair Start And Put Him On An Equality With A Bold, Wicked Man.