The Babe At First Feeds

Only Have Enough Of Little Virtues And Common Fidelities, And You Need Not Mourn Because You Are Neither A Hero Nor A Saint.

Genius Is A Steed Too Fiery For The Plow Or The Cart.

If A Man Harbors Any Sort Of Fear, It Percolates Through All His Thinking, Damages His Personality, Makes Him Landlord To A Ghost.

Mirth Is God's Medicine. Everybody Ought To Bathe In It. Grim Care, Moroseness, Anxiety,--all This Rust Of Life, Ought To Be Scoured Off By The Oil Of Mirth. It Is Better Than Emery. Every Man Ought To Rub Himself With It. A Man Without Mirth Is Like A Wagon Without Springs, In Which One Is Caused Disagreeably To Jolt By Every Pebble Over Which It Runs.

In This World, Full Often, Our Joys Are Only The Tender Shadows Which Our Sorrows Cast.