Shall I Speak Truly What I Now

A Combed Writing Will Cost Both Sweat And The Rubbing Of The Brain. And Combed I Wish It, Not Frizzled Or Curled.

Negligence Is The Rust Of The Soul That Corrodes Through All Her Best Resolves.

Discontent Is Like Ink Poured Into Water, Which Fills The Whole Fountain Full Of Blackness.

Hope Is To A Man As A Bladder To A Learning Swimmer--it Keeps Him From Sinking In The Bosom Of The Waves, And By That Help He May Attain The Exercise; But Yet It Many Times Makes Him Venture Beyond His Height, And Then If That Breaks, Or A Storm Rises, He Drowns Without Recovery. How Many Would Die, Did Not Hope Sustain Them! How Many Have Died By Hoping Too Much! This Wonder We Find In Hope, That She Is Both A Flatterer And A True Friend.

Virtue Were A Kind Of Misery If Fame Were All The Garland That Crowned Her.