Happy the man whose lot it is to know The secrets of the earth. He hastens not To work his fellows hurt by unjust deeds, But with rapt admiration contemplates Immortal Nature's ageless harmony, And how and when the order came to be.

Oh, trebly blest the placid lot of those whose hearth foundations are in pure love laid, where husband's breast with tempered ardor glows, and wife, oft mother, is in heart a maid!

No one is happy all his life long.

Toil, says the proverb, is the sire of fame.

The gift of a bad man can bring no good.

Greatness brings no profit to people. God indeed, when in anger, brings greater ruin to great mens houses.

A sharp-tempered woman, or, for that matter, a man, Is easier to deal with than the clever type Who holds her tongue.