And Modesty, Who, When She Goes, Is

Patience, Piety, And Salutary Knowledge Spring Up And Ripen Under The Harrow Of Affliction; Before There Is Wine Or Oil, The Grape Must Be Trodden And The Oil Pressed.

Tyrants Never Perish From Tyranny, But Always From Folly,-when Their Fantasies Have Built Up A Palace For Which The Earth Has No Foundation.

In The Hours Of Distress And Misery, The Eyes Of Every Mortal Turn To Friendship; In The Hours Of Gladness And Conviviality, What Is Our Want? It Is Friendship. When The Heart Overflows With Gratitude, Or With Any Other Sweet Or Sacred Sentiment, What Is The Word To Which It Would Give Utterance? A Friend.

And Modesty, Who, When She Goes, Is Gone For Ever.

We Fancy We Suffer From Ingratitude, While In Reality We Suffer From Self-love.