We Pick Our Own Sorrows Out Of

He That Despairs Degrades The Deity, And Seems To Intimate That He Is Insufficient, Or Not Just To His Word; And In Vain Hath Read The Scriptures, The World, And Man.

A Combed Writing Will Cost Both Sweat And The Rubbing Of The Brain. And Combed I Wish It, Not Frizzled Or Curled.

Human Life Has Not A Surer Friend, Nor Oftentimes A Greater Enemy, Than Hope. It Is The Miserable Man's God, Which In The Hardest Gripe Of Calamity Never Fails To Yield To Him Beams Of Comfort. It Is The Presumptuous Man's Devil, Which Leads Him A While In A Smooth Way, And Then Suddenly Breaks His Neck.

Take Heed Of A Speedy Professing Friend; Love Is Never Lasting Which Flames Before It Burns.

The Irresolute Man Flecks From One Egg To Another, So Hatches Nothing.