The Pine Is The Mother

Tyrants Are But The Spawn Of Ignorance, Begotten By The Slaves They Trample On.

What A Man Pays For Bread And Butter Is Worth Its Market Value, And No More. What He Pays For Love's Sake Is Gold Indeed, Which Has A Lure For Angels' Eyes, And Rings Well Upon God's Touchstone.

Some Kind Of Pace May Be Got Out Of The Eeriest Jade By The Near Prospect Of Oats; But The Thoroughbred Has The Spur In His Blood.

Not Suffering, But Faint Heart, Is Worst Of Woes.

Here Was A Type Of The True Elder Race, And One Of Plutarch's Men Talked With Us Face To Face.