The Wolf Must Die In His Own

Rise, Heart; Thy Lord Is Risen. Sing His Praise Without Delays, Who Takes Thee By The Hand, That Thou Likewise With Him Mayst Rise: That, As His Death Calcined Thee To Dust, His Life May Make Thee Gold, And, Much More, Just.

Go Not For Every Grief To The Physician, Nor For Every Quarrell To The Lawyer, Nor For Every Thirst To The Pot.

Happier Are The Hands Compast With Yron, Then A Heart With Thoughts.

A Wicked Mans Gift Hath A Touch Of His Master.

One Father Is More Than A Hundred Schoolmasters.