The Proud Man Hath No God; The

Good Prayers Never Come Creeping Home. I Am Sure I Shall Receive Either What I Ask, Or What I Should Ask.

Perfection Is The Child Of Time.

Death Borders Upon Our Birth, And Our Cradle Stands In The Grave.

Society Is The Atmosphere Of Souls; And We Necessarily Imbibe From It Something Which Is Either Infectious Or Healthful.

We Are Often Infinitely Mistaken, And Take The Falsest Measures, When We Envy The Happiness Of Rich And Great Men; We Know Not The Inward Canker That Eats Out All Their Joy And Delight, And Makes Them Really Much More Miserable Than Ourselves.