Wilt Thou, Then, My Soul,

The Perfection Of Moral Character Consists In This, In Passing Every Day As The Last, And In Being Neither Violently Excited Nor Torpid Nor Playing The Hypocrite.

Is Your Cucumber Bitter? Throw It Away. Are There Briars In Your Path? Turn Aside. That Is Enough. Do Not Go On And Ay, 'why Were Things Of This Sort Ever Brought Into The World?'

In Man's Life, Time Is But A Moment; Being, A Flux; Sense Is Dim; The Material Frame Corruptible; Soul, An Eddy Of Breath; Fortune A Thing Inscrutable, And Fame Precarious.

The Act Of Dying Is One Of The Acts Of Life.

When You Arise In The Morning, Think Of What A Precious Privilege It Is To Be Alive - To Breathe, To Think, To Enjoy, To Love.