Most People I Ask Little

It Is This Unquiet Self-love That Renders Us So Sensitive. The Sick Man, Who Sleeps Ill, Thinks The Night Long. We Exaggerate, From Cowardice, All The Evils Which We Encounter; They Are Great, But Our Sensibility Increases Them. The True Way To Bear Them Is To Yield Ourselves Up With Confidence To God.

There Were Some Who Said That A Man At The Point Of Death Was More Free Than All Others, Because Death Breaks Every Bond, And Over The Dead The United World Has No Power.

God, Who Is Liberal In All His Other Gifts, Shows Us, By The Wise Economy Of His Providence, How Circumspect We Ought To Be In The Management Of Our Time, For He Never Gives Us Two Moments Together.

This Is The Love That Does All Things; That Brings To Pass Even The Evils We Suffer; So Shaping Them That They Are But Instruments Of Preparing The Good Which, As Yet, Has Not Arrived.

You Really Don't Even Own The Present Moment, For Even This Belongs To God.