The Ancients Tell Us What Is Best;

Vice Knows She Is Ugly, So Puts On Her Mask.

Diligence Is The Mother Of Good Luck.

Death Is A Fisherman, The World We See His Fish-pond Is, And We The Fishes Be; His Net Some General Sickness; Howe'er He Is Not So Kind As Other Fishers Be; For If They Take One Of The Smaller Fry, They Throw Him In Again, He Shall Not Die: But Death Is Sure To Kill All He Can Get, And All Is Fish With Him That Comes To Net.

Half-wits Talk Much, But Say Little.

I Cannot Conceive Otherwise Than That He, The Infinite Father, Expects Or Requires No Worship Or Praise From Us, But That He Is Even Infinitely Above It.