“The proud are ever most provoked by pride.”

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.

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

To impute our recovery to medicine, and to carry our view no further, is to rob God of His honor, and is saying in effect that He has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of His own reach.

A self-made man? Yes, and one who worships his creator.

I will pray, therefore, for blessings on my friends, even though they cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though they continue such.

Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstasy.

The man to solitude accustom’d long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease,

I had some money, I made the best paintings ever.

Chimerical and empty being, your name alone has caused more blood to flow on the face of the earth than any political war ever will.

I have absolutely no desire and no thought of quitting ever.

No country has ever closely scrutinized itself visually.

A ball player has to be kept hungry to become a big leaguer. That’s why no boy from a rich family has ever made the big leagues.

It reminds me that no embrace will ever feel the same again, because no one will ever be like her again, because she’s gone. She’s gone, and crying feels so useless, so stupid, but it’s all I can do.

Hitting the bottle again, ever than I’ve drunker been. Or is it drunker than I’ve ever been?

No lasting gain has ever come from compulsion.