The Innocent Seldom Find An Uncomfortable Pillow.

All Constraint, / Except What Wisdom Lays On Evil Men, / Is Evil.

All We Behold Is Miracle.

No, Freedom Has A Thousand Charms To Show That Slaves, Howe'er Contented, Never Know.

To Impute Our Recovery To Medicine, And To Carry Our View No Further, Is To Rob God Of His Honor, And Is Saying In Effect That He Has Parted With The Keys Of Life And Death, And, By Giving To A Drug The Power To Heal Us, Has Placed Our Lives Out Of His Own Reach.

All Flesh Is Grass. And All Its Glory Fades Like The Fair Flower Dishevell'd In The Wind; Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream; The Man We Celebrate Must Find A Tomb, And We That Worship Him, Ignoble Graves.