The Brave Person Thinks Of Himself Last

The Great Happiness Of Life, I Find, After All, To Consist In The Regular Discharge Of Some Mechanical Duty.

Revenge Is Barren Of Itself: It Is The Dreadful Food It Feeds On; Its Delight Is Murder, And Its End Is Despair.

Cling To Thy Native Land, For It Is The Land Of Thy Fathers?

The Storm Is Master. Man, As A Ball, Is Tossed Twixt Winds And Billows.

If You Cannot Please Everyone With Your Deeds And Your Art, Please A Few. To Please Many Is Bad.