But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send, Save me, oh, save me, from the candid friend!

But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send, / Save me, oh, save me, from the candid friend!

Thy fierce wrath goeth over me; thy terrors have cut me off.

For all our days are passed away in thy wrath: we spend our years as a tale that is told.

I seen hundreds of men come by on the road an’ on the ranches, with their bindles on their back an’ that same damn thing in their heads . . . every damn one of ’em’s got a little piece of land in his head. An’ never a God damn one of ’em ever gets it. Just like heaven. Ever’body wants a little piece of lan’. I read plenty of books out here. Nobody never gets to heaven, and nobody gets no land.

Timid people always reek their peevishness on the gentle.