Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto

There Is In Every Miracle A Silent Chiding Of The World, And A Tacit Reprehension Of Them Who Require, Or Who Need Miracles.

Affliction Is A Treasure, And Scarce Any Man Hath Enough Of It. No Man Hath Affliction Enough That Is Not Matured And Ripened By It And Made Fit For God.

Love's Mysteries In Souls Do Grow, But Yet The Body Is His Book.

All Mankind Is One Volume. When One Man Dies, A Chapter Is Not Torn Out Of The Book, But Translated Into A Better Language. And Every Chapter Must Be Translated. God Employs Several Translators; Some Pieces Are Translated By Age, Some By Sickness, Some By War, Some By Justice. But God's Hand Shall Bind Up All Our Scattered Leaves Again For That Library Where Every Book Shall Live Open To One Another

Festive Alcohol Sometimes Leads To An Excess Of Honesty.