“Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs,”

Still ending, and beginning still.

Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.

Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.

Grief is itself a medicine.

Habits are soon assumed; but when we strive to strip them off, ’tis being flayed alive.

They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.

Heaven’s harmony is universal love.

What we admire we praise; and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too.

But oars alone can ne’er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

Trials make the promise sweet, Trials give new life to prayer; Trials bring me to His feet, Lay me low, and keep me there.

And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.

The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flow’r. Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature.

And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow’d perhaps by a smile.

Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.

Doctors bury their mistakes, but mine are still on scholarship.

I’m about my characters.

If hearts could shatter, mine just did.

I beseech you, one and all, to add your prayers to mine to the end that war and bloodshed cease, and that love, friendship, peace and unity reign in the world.

Sawyer: Alone in your tent? Um, no. You’re in my tent

I’m not a stand up at all, it’s such a fear of mine. My sister does it, and she’s really great at it.

If you were mine, I would never let you go.

You’re mine, Pagan Moore. You will always be mine.