The Time Is Ripe, And Rotten-ripe, For

Life Is Constantly Weighing Us In Very Sensitive Scales, And Telling Every One Of Us Precisely What His Real Weight Is To The Last Grain Of Dust.

A Stray Hair, By Its Continued Irritation, May Give More Annoyance Than A Smart Blow.

In The Parliament Of The Present Every Man Represents A Constituency Of The Past.

Not A Deed Would He Do, Not A Word Would He Utter, Till He's Weighed Its Relation To Plain Bread And Butter.

For There's Nothing We Read Of In Torture's Inventions, Like A Well-meaning Dunce, With The Best Of Intentions.