As Civilization Advances, Poetry Almost Necessarily Declines.

Satire Is, Indeed, The Only Sort Of Composition In Which The Latin Poets Whose Works Have Come Down To Us Were Not Mere Imitators Of Foreign Models; And It Is Therefore The Sort Of Composition In Which They Have Never Been Excelled.

It Is The Age That Forms The Man, Not The Man That Forms The Age.

The Business Of The Dramatist Is To Keep Himself Out Of Sight, And To Let Nothing Appear But His Characters. As Soon As He Attracts Notice To His Personal Feelings, The Illusion Is Broken.

The Spartan, Smiting And Spurning The Wretched Helot, Moves Our Disgust. But The Same Spartan, Calmly Dressing His Hair, And Uttering His Concise Jests, On What The Well Knows To Be His Last Day, In The Pass Of Thermopylae, Is Not To Be Contemplated Without Admiration.

A Dominant Religion Is Never Ascetic.