A Man Renowned For Repartee Will Seldom

How Sweet, How Passing Sweet, Is Solitude! But Grant Me Still A Friend In My Retreat, Whom I May Whisper, Solitude Is Sweet.

But Slaves That Once Conceive The Glowing Thought Of Freedom, In That Hope Itself Possess All That The Contest Calls For; Spirit, Strength, The Scorn Of Danger, And United Hearts, The Surest Presage Of The Good They Seek.

In Man Or Woman, But Far Most In Man, And Most Of All In Man That Ministers, And Serves The Altar, In My Soul I Loathe All Affectation. 'tis My Perfect Scorn: Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

God Made The Country, And Man Made The Town.

Knowledge And Wisdom, Far From Being One, Have Oft-times No Connection. Knowledge Dwells In Heads Replete With Thoughts Of Other Men; Wisdom In Minds Attentive To Their Own.