None Are Fit Judges Of

In His Fairy Dreams Of War [thaddeus] Always Made Conquest The Sure End Of His Battles.

The Mob Is A Sort Of Bear; While Your Ring Is Through Its Nose, It Will Even Dance Under Your Cudgel; But Should The Ring Slip, And You Lose Your Hold, The Brute Will Turn And Rend You.

Yet Happiness Isn't Something You Chase, It's Something You Are. It's Something You Think, It's Something You Believe.

The Fruition Of What Is Unlawful Must Be Followed By Remorse. The Core Sticks In The Throat After The Apple Is Eaten, And The Sated Appetite Loathes The Interdicted Pleasure For Which Innocence Was Bartered.

The Pure In Heart Are Slow To Credit Calumnies, Because They Hardly Comprehend What Motives Can Be Inducements To The Alleged Crimes.