The Proof Of Gold Is Fire.

One Of The Greatest Tragedies Of Life Is The Murder Of A Beautiful Theory By A Gang Of Brutal Facts.

Epitaph On A Scolding Wife By Her Husband: Here My Poor Bridget's Corpse Doth Lie, She Is At Rest - And So Am I!

Don't Halloo Until You're Out Of The Wood.

I Looked Around For God's Judgments, But Saw No Signs Of Them.

Let Honesty Be As The Breath Of Thy Soul; Then Shalt Thou Reach The Point Of Happiness, And Independence Shall Be Thy Shield And Buckler, Thy Helmet And Crown; Then Shall Thy Soul Walk Upright, Nor Stoop To The Silken Wretch Because He Hath Riches, Nor Pocket An Abuse Because The Hand Which Offers It Wears A Ring Set With Diamonds.