Some Laborers Have Hard Hands, And Old

O Time The Fatal Wrack Of Mortal Things, That Draws Oblivion's Curtains Over Kings; Their Sumptuous Monuments, Men Know Them Not, Their Names Without A Record Are Forgot, Their Parts, Their Ports, Their Pomps All Laid In Th' Dust Nor Wit Nor Gold, Nor Buildings Scape Time's Rust; But He Whose Name Is Graved In The White Stone Shall Last And Shine When All Of These Are Gone.

I Happy Am, If Well With You.

If We Had Not Winter, The Spring Would Not Be So Pleasant; If We Did Not Sometimes Taste Of Adversity, Prosperity Would Not Be So Welcome.

Wickedness Comes To Its Height By Degrees. He That Dares Say Of A Less Sin, Is It Not A Little One? Will Ere Long Say Of A Greater, Tush, God Regards It Not!

He That Would Be Content With A Mean Condition Must Not Cast His Eye Upon One That Is In A Far Better Estate Than Himself, But Let Him Look Upon Him That Is Lower Than He Is, And, If He See That Such A One Bears Poverty Comfortably, It Will Help To Quiet Him.