Whether The Pitcher Hits The Stone Or

A Father May Have A Child Who Is Ugly And Lacking In All The Graces, And The Love He Feels For Him Puts A Blindfold Over His Eyes So That He Does Not See His Defects But Considers Them Signs Of Charm And Intelligence And Recounts Them To His Friends As If They Were Clever And Witty.

The Poet May Say Or Sing, Not As Things Were, But As They Ought To Have Been; But The Historian Must Pen Them, Not As They Ought To Have Been, But As They Really Were.

He Is Mad Past Recovery, But Yet He Has Lucid Intervals.

It Seldom Happens That Any Felicity Comes So Pure As Not To Be Tempered And Allayed By Some Mixture Of Sorrow.

Delay Always Breeds Danger.