The Sublime Is Contained In A Grain

Men, Like Nails, Lose Their Usefulness When They Lose Their Direction And Begin To Bend.

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.

Ambition Is But Avarice On Stilts, And Masked. God Sometimes Sends A Famine, Sometimes A Pestilence, And Sometimes A Hero, For The Chastisement Of Mankind; None Of Them Surely For Our Admiration.

We Cannot At Once Catch The Applauses Of The Vulgar And Expect The Approbation Of The Wise.

Every Witticism Is An Inexact Thought; That Which Is Perfectly True Is Imperfectly Witty.