All my ambition is, I own,
To profit and to please unknown;
Like streams supplied from springs below,
Which scatter blessings as they go.
—Dr. Cotton.
Angels.—If you woo the company of the angels in your waking hours, they will be sure to come to you in your sleep.—G.D. Prentice.
The accusing spirit, which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the recording angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word and blotted it out forever.—Sterne.
There are two angels that attend unseen
Each one of us, and in great books record
Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down
The good ones, after every action closes
His volume, and ascends with it to God.
The other keeps his dreadful day-book open
Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing,
The record of the action fades away,
And leaves a line of white across the page.
Now if my act be good, as I believe it,
It cannot be recalled. It is already
Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished.
The rest is yours.
—Longfellow.
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.
—Milton.
Anger.—And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
—Coleridge.
Anger is implanted in us as a sort of sting, to make us gnash with our teeth against the devil, to make us vehement against him, not to set us in array against each other.
When anger rushes unrestrain'd to action,
Like a hot steed, it stumbles in its way.
—Savage.
Lamentation is the only musician that always, like a screech-owl, alights and sits on the roof of an angry man.—Plutarch.
He is a fool who cannot be angry; but he is a wise man who will not.—Seneca.