Of All The Grief's That Harass The

He Who Has Provoked The Shaft Of Wit, Cannot Complain That He Smarts From It.

Every Man Is Prompted By The Love Of Himself To Imagine That He Possesses Some Qualities Superior, Either In Kind Or Degree, To Those Which He Sees Allotted To The Rest Of The World.

If He Does Really Think That There Is No Distinction Between Virtue And Vice, Why, Sir, When He Leaves Our Houses Let Us Count Our Spoons.

If The Guardian Or The Mother Tell The Woes Of Willful Waste, Scorn Their Counsel And Their Pother, You Can Hang Or Drown At Last.

There Is Not, Perhaps, To A Mind Well Instructed, A More Painful Occurrence, Than The Death Of One We Have Injured Without Reparation.