A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is

The Critic Does His Utmost To Blight Genius In Its Infancy; That Which Rises In Spite Of Him He Will Not See; And Then He Complains Of The Decline Of Literature.

I Never Failed To Convince An Audience That The Best Thing They Could Do Was To Go Away.

The Present Is Our Own; But While We Speak, We Cease From Its Possession, And Resign The Stage We Tread On, To Another Race, As Vain, And Gay, And Mortal As Ourselves.

In A Bowl To Sea Went Wise Men Three, On A Brilliant Night Of June: They Carried A Net, And Their Hearts Were Set On Fishing Up The Moon.

... Where The Greeks Had Modesty, We Have Cant; Where They Had Poetry, We Have Cant; Where They Had Patriotism, We Have Cant; Where They Had Anything That Exalts, Delights, Or Adorns Humanity, We Have Nothing But Cant, Cant, Cant.