The Damps Of Autumn Sink Into The

There Is No More Certain Sign Of A Narrow Mind, Of Stupidity, And Of Arrogance, Than To Stand Aloof From Those Who Think Differently From Us.

Ah What Avails The Sceptred Race, Ah What The Form Divine! What Every Virtue, Every Grace! Rose Aylmer, All Were Thine. Rose Aylmer, Whom These Wakeful Eyes May Weep, But Never See, A Night Of Memories And Of Sighs I Consecrate To Thee.

True Wit, To Every Man, Is That Which Falls On Another.

I Sometimes Think That The Most Plaintive Ditty Has Brought A Fuller Joy And Of Longer Duration To Its Composer That The Conquest Of Persia To The Macedonian.

I Never Did A Single Wise Thing In The Whole Course Of My Existence, Although I Have Written Many Which Have Been Thought So.