He That Can Work Is Born To

Man Is, Properly Speaking, Based Upon Hope, He Has No Other Possession But Hope; This World Of His Is Emphatically The Place Of Hope.

Poverty, We May Say, Surrounds A Man With Ready-made Barriers, Which If They Do Mournfully Gall And Hamper, Do At Least Prescribe For Him, And Force On Him, A Sort Of Course And Goal; A Safe And Beaten, Though A Circuitous, Course. A Great Part Of His Guidance Is Secure Against Fatal Error, Is Withdrawn From His Control. The Rich, Again, Has His Whole Life To Guide, Without Goal Or Barrier, Save Of His Own Choosing, And, Tempted, Is Too Likely To Guide It Ill.

Good Christian People, Here Lies For You An Inestimable Loan; Take All Heed Thereof, In All Carefulness, Employ It: With High Recompense, Or Else With Heavy Penalty, Will It One Day Be Required Back.

Rest Is A Fine Medicine. Let Your Stomachs Rest, Ye Dyspeptics; Let Your Brain Rest, You Wearied And Worried People Of Business; Let Your Limbs Rest, Ye Children Of Toil!

Laws Themselves, Political Constitutions, Are Not Our Life; But Only The House Wherein Our Life Is Led.