There Are Mystically In Our Faces Certain

That Miracles Have Been, I Do Believe; That They May Yet Be Wrought By The Living, I Do Not Deny: But Have No Confidence In Those Which Are Fathered On The Dead.

Rough Diamonds May Sometimes Be Mistaken For Worthless Pebbles.

It Is We That Are Blind, Not Fortune; Because Our Eye Is Too Dim To Discern The Mystery Of Her Effects, We Foolishly Paint Her Blind, And Hoodwink The Providence Of The Almighty.

I Could Never Divide Myself From Any Man Upon The Difference Of An Opinion, Or Be Angry With His Judgment For Not Agreeing With Me In That From Which Perhaps Within A Few Days I Should Dissent Myself.

Death Hath A Thousand Doors To Let Out Life. I Shall Find One.