Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness --a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster-children into strength and athletic proportion.
Weep not that the world changes -- did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.