Know thy own worth, and reverence the lyre, is a line that should be as a fillet bound round the brow—a philactory embroidered on the garments of every son and daughter of Adam distinguished by the possession of that sacred gift, which, whether used or abused, applauded in itself or derided in its possessor, is the highest and the most inalienable distinction humanity ever has or ever can be gifted with, whether bestowed on the highest or the humblest being, in the great mass to which we all belong.

This is a poisoned work environment.

I filled my plate from the bountiful table.

What little worlds of affection and comfort are bounded by the neat quickset-hedge, quiet and still as the nest of some singing-bird!