Craft Against Craft Makes No Living.

He Hath No Leisure Who Useth It Not.

Every Path Hath A Puddle.

Let Thy Mind Still Be Bent, Still Plotting, Where, And When, And How Thy Business May Be Done. Slackness Breeds Worms; But The Sure Traveller, Though He Alights Sometimes Still Goeth On.

Church Bells Beyond The Stars Heard, The Soul's Blood, The Land Of Spices; Something Understood.

The Good Mother Sayes Not, Will You? But Gives.