It Is Safe To Make A Choice

Virtue Is Not A Mushroom, That Springeth Up Of Itself In One Night When We Are Asleep, Or Regard It Not; But A Delicate Plant, That Groweth Slowly And Tenderly, Needing Much Pains To Cultivate It, Much Care To Guard It, Much Time To Mature It, In Our Untoward Soil, In This World's Unkindly Weather.

Poetry Is A Kind Of Ingenious Nonsense (spence, Anecdotes

There Do Remain Dispersed In The Soil Of Human Nature Divers Seeds Of Goodness, Of Benignity, Of Ingenuity, Which, Being Cherished, Excited, And Quickened By Good Culture, Do, By Common Experience, Thrust Out Flowers Very Lovely, And Yield Fruits Very Pleasant Of Virtue And Goodness.

Shall We Keep Our Hands In Our Bosom, Or Stretch Ourselves On Our Beds Of Laziness, While All The World About Us Is Hard At Work, In Pursuing The Designs Of Its Creation?

No Man Speaketh, Or Should Speak, Of His Prince, That Which He Hath Not Weighed Whether It Will Consist With That Veneration Which Should Be Preserved Inviolate To Him.