The Return Of My Birthday, If I

The Misery Of Man Proceeds Not From Any Single Crush Of Overwhelming Evil, But From Small Vexations Continually Repeated.

Words Are But The Signs Of Ideas.

Shakespeare Never Had Six Lines Together Without A Fault. Perhaps You May Find Seven, But This Does Not Refute My General Assertion.

Leisure And Curiosity Might Soon Make Great Advances In Useful Knowledge, Were They Not Diverted By Minute Emulation And Laborious Trifles.

Labor's Face Is Wrinkled With The Wind, And Swarthy With The Sun.