He Mouths A Sentence As Curs Mouth

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.

Knaves Starve Not In The Land Of Fools.

The Villager, Born Humbly And Bred Hard, Content His Wealth, And Poverty His Guard, In Action Simply Just, In Conscience Clear, By Guilt Untainted, Undisturb'd By Fear, His Means But Scanty, And His Wants But Few, Labor His Business, And His Pleasure Too, Enjoys More Comforts In A Single Hour Than Ages Give The Wretch Condemn'd To Power.

By Different Methods Different Men Excel, But Where Is He Who Can Do All Things Well?

Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.