And Out Of Good Still To Find

Chaos Umpire Sits And By Decision More Embroils The Fray By Which He Reigns: Next Him High Arbiter Chance Governs All.

I Will Not Allow My Daughters To Learn Foreign Languages Because One Tongue Is Sufficient For A Woman.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

And The Jocund Rebecks Sound To Many A Youth, And Many A Maid, Dancing In The Checkered Shade. And Young And Old Come Forth To Play On A Sunshine Holiday.

He Alone Is Worthy Of The Appellation Who Either Does Great Things, Or Teaches How They May Be Done, Or Describes Them With A Suitable Majesty When They Have Been Done; But Those Only Are Great Things Which Tend To Render Life More Happy, Which Increase The Innocent Enjoyments And Comforts Of Existence, Or Which Pave The Way To A State Of Future Bliss More Permanent And More Pure.