If Dirt Were Trumps, What Hands You

Trample Not On The Ruins Of A Man.

How Sickness Enlarges The Dimension Of A Man’s Self To Himself!

In Some Respects The Better A Book Is, The Less It Demands From The Binding.

This World Is All A Fleeting Show, For Man's Illusion Given The Smiles Of Joy, The Tears Of Woe, Deceitful Shine, Deceitful Flow, Theres Nothing True But Heaven.

A Miser Is Sometimes A Grand Personification Of Fear. He Has A Fine Horror Of Poverty; And He Is Not Content To Keep Want From The Door, Or At Arm's Length, But He Places It, By Heaping Wealth Upon Wealth, At A Sublime Distance!