No man is born into the world whose work Is not born with him. There is always work, And tools to work withal, for those who will; And blessed are the horny hands of toil.

Sincerity is impossible, unless it pervade the whole being, and the pretence of it saps the very foundation of character.

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.

The mind can weave itself warmly in the cocoon of its own thoughts, and dwell a hermit anywhere.

Who is it needs such flawless shafts as fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, or hits the white so surely?

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave?

The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change... [Truth's] mirror is turned forward, to reflect The promise of the future, not the past.