Nor Fire, Nor Rocks, Can Stop Our

Mark, How The Ready Hands Of Death Prepare: His Bow Is Bent, And He Hath Notch'd His Dart; He Aims, He Levels At Thy Slumb'ring Heart: The Wound Is Posting, O Be Wise, Beware.

Death Aims With Fouler Spiteat Fairer Marks.

Rather Do What Is Nothing To The Purpose Than Be Idle; That The Devil May Find Thee Doing. The Bird That Sits Is Easily Shot, When Fliers Scape The Fowler. Idleness Is The Dead Sea That Swallows All The Virtues, And The Self-made Sepulchre Of A Living Man.

Make Philosophy Thy Journey, Theology Thy Journey's End: Philosophy Is A Pleasant Way, But Dangerous To Him That Either Tires Or Retires; In This Journey It Is Safe Neither To Loiter Nor To Rest, Till Thou Hast Attained Thy Journey's End; He That Sits Down A Philosopher Rises Up An Atheist.

A Despairing Heart Is The True Prophet Of Approaching Evil; His Actions May Weave The Webs Of Fortune, But Not Break Them.