He Does Not Write At All Whose

He Would Be The Finer Gentleman That Should Leave The World Without Having Tasted Of Lying Or Pretence Of Any Sort, Or Of Wantonness Or Conceit.

Doth Perfect Beauty Stand In Need Of Praise At All? Nay; No More Than Law, No More Than Truth, No More Than Loving Kindness, Nor Than Modesty.

Everything Is Here For A Purpose, From Horses To Vine Shoots. What's Surprising About That? Even The Sun Will Tell You, "i Have A Purpose," And The Other Goods As Well.

Glory Arrives Too Late When It Comes Only To One's Ashes

At Day's First Light Have In Readiness, Against Disinclination To Leave Your Bed, The Thought That "i Am Rising For The Work Of Man."