There Is No Eloquence Which Does Not

But I Have Sinuous Shells Of Pearly Hue Within, And They That Lustre Have Imbibed In The Sun's Palace-porch, Where When Unyoked Chariot-wheel Stands Midway In The Wave: Shake One, And It Awakens; Then Apply Its Polisht Lips To Your Attentive Ear, And It Remembers Its August Abodes, And Murmurs As The Ocean Murmurs There.

Heat And Animosity, Contest And Conflict, May Sharpen The Wits, Although They Rarely Do; They Never Strengthen The Understanding, Clear The Perspicacity, Guide The Judgment, Or Improve The Heart.

Truth, Like The Juice Of The Poppy, In Small Quantities, Calms Men; In Larger, Heats And Irritates Them, And Is Attended By Fatal Consequences In Excess.

We Cannot Conquer Fate And Necessity, Yet We Can Yield To Them In Such A Manner As To Be Greater Than If We Could.

Goodness Does Not More Certainly Make Men Happy Than Happiness Makes Them Good.