Fortune Is The Rod Of The Weak,

All God's Angels Come To Us Disguised.

Earth Gets Its Price For What Earth Gives Us; The Beggar Is Taxed For A Corner To Die In, The Priest Hath His Fee Who Comes And Shrives Us, We Bargain For The Graves We Lie In; Each Ounce Of Dross Costs Its Ounce Of Gold... 't Is Heaven Alone That Is Given Away, 't Is Only God May Be Had For The Asking; There Is No Price Set On The Lavish Summer, And June May Be Had By The Poorest Comer.

I Would Hardly Change The Sorrowful Words Of The Poets For Their Glad Ones. Tears Dampen The Strings Of The Lyre, But They Grow The Tensor For It, And Ring Even The Clearer And More Ravishingly.

Reputation Is Only A Candle, Of Wavering And Uncertain Flame, And Easily Blown Out, But It Is The Light By Which The World Looks For And Finds Merit.

But Civlyzation Doos Git Forrid Sometimes Upon A Powder-cart.