And Modesty, Who, When She Goes, Is

In The Morn Of Life We Are Alert, We Are Heated In Its Noon, And Only In Its Decline Do We Repose.

Ambition Is But Avarice On Stilts, And Masked. God Sometimes Sends A Famine, Sometimes A Pestilence, And Sometimes A Hero, For The Chastisement Of Mankind; None Of Them Surely For Our Admiration.

The Tomb Is The Pedestal Of Greatness. I Make A Distinction Between God's Great And The King's Great.

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.

It Appears To Be Among The Laws Of Nature, That The Mighty Of Intellect Should Be Pursued And Carped By The Little, As The Solitary Flight Of One Great Bird Is Followed By The Twittering Petulance Of Many Smaller.