The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.

The Eye Sees All, But The Mind Shows Us What We Want To See.

Speak, What Trade Art Thou? Why, Sir, A Carpenter. Where Is Thy Leather Apron And Thy Rule? What Does Thou With Thy Best Apparel On?

Let Me Not Live, After My Flame Lacks Oil, To Be The Snuff Of Younger Spirits.

Pain Pays The Income Of Each Precious Thing.