The Way To Rise Is To Obey

Our Whole Life Is Like A Play.

Custom Is The Most Certain Mistress Of Language, As The Public Stamp Makes The Current Money.

A Thankful Man Owes A Courtesy Ever; The Unthankful But When He Needs It.

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

O! How Vain And Vile A Passion Is This Fear! What Base Uncomely Things It Makes Men Do.