Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out

Your Highest Female Grace Is Silence.

That Praises Are Without Reason Lavished On The Dead, And That The Honours Due Only To Are Paid To Antiquity, Is A Complaint Likely To Be Always Continued By Those Who, Being Able To Add Nothing To Truth, Hope For Eminence From The Heresies Of Paradox; Or Those Who, Being Forced By Disappointment Upon Consolatory Expedients, Are Willing To Hope From Posterity What The Present Age Refuses, And Flatter Themselves That The Regard Which Is Yet Denied By Envy Will Be At Last Bestowed By Time.

Poets Are Far Rarer Birds Than Kings.

Whom Hatred Frights, Let Him Not Dream Of Sovereignty.

Success Produces Confidence; Confidence Relaxes Industry, And Negligence Ruins The Reputation Which Accuracy Had Raised.