Every Thing Is Of Use To A

The Thorne Comes Forth With The Point Forwards.

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.

Money, Thou Bane Of Bliss, And Source Of Woe, Whence Cam'st Thou, That Thou Art So Fresh And Fine? I Know Thy Parentage Is Base And Low: Man Found Thee Poor And Dirty In A Mine.

You May Bring A Horse To The River, But He Will Drinke When And What He Pleaseth.

The Absent Partie Is Still Faultie.