There Is Nothing On Earth Divine Except

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.

There Is A Desire Of Property In The Sanest And Best Men, Which Nature Seems To Have Implanted As Conservative Of Her Works, And Which Is Necessary To Encourage And Keep Alive The Arts.

We Fancy That Our Afflictions Are Sent Us Directly From Above; Sometimes We Think It In Piety And Contrition, But Oftener In Moroseness And Discontent.

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