The End Of All Is Death And

All Men Desire Peace, But Very Few Desire Those Things That Make For Peace.

Love Longs To Be Free, A Stranger To Every Worldly Desire, Lest Its Inner Vision Become Dimmed, And Lest Worldly Self-interest Hinder It Or Ill-fortune Cast It Down.

The Glory Of The Good Is In Their Consciences, And Not In The Tongues Of Men.

Gladly We Desire To Make Other Men Perfect, But We Will Not Amend Our Own Fault.

Love Is Watchful. Sleeping, It Does Not Slumber. Wearied, It Is Not Tired. Pressed, It Is Not Straitened. Alarmed, It Is Not Confused, But Like A Living Flame, A Burning Torch, It Forces Its Way Upward And Passes Unharmed Through Every Obstacle.