There Is A Majestic Grandeur In Tranquillity.

The Tongue Is The Only Instrument That Gets Sharper With Use.

Every Desire Bears Its Death In Its Very Gratification. Curiosity Languishes Under Repeated Stimulants, And Novelties Cease To Excite And Surprise, Until At Length We Cannot Wonder Even At A Miracle.

Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under The Loss Of Personal Liberty; Others Grow Morbid And Irritable; But It Is The Nature Of The Poet To Become Tender And Imaginitive In The Loneliness Of Confinement. He Banquets Upon The Honey Of His Own Thoughts, And, Like The Captive Bird, Pours Forth His Soul In Melody.

There Is A Remembrance Of The Dead To Which We Turn Even From The Charms Of The Living.

There Is No Character In The Comedy Of Human Life More Difficult To Play Well Than That Of An Old Bachelor.