Virtue, Though Clothed In A Beggar's Garb,

To Be Man's Tender Mate Was Woman Born, And In Obeying Nature She Best Serves The Purposes Of Heaven.

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

If The Art Of Gardening Is At Last To Turn Back From Her Extravagances And Rest With Her Other Sisters, It Is, Above Everything, Necessary To Have Clearly Before You What You Require . . . It Is Certainly Tasteless And Inconsistent To Desire To Encompass The World With A Garden-wall, But Very Practicable And Reasonable To Make A Garden . . . Into A Characteristic Whole To The Eye, Heart, And Nderstanding Alike.

Be True, And Thou Shalt Fetter Time With Everlasting Chain.

Virtue Is No Empty Echo.