Critics Are Already Made.

I Depart, Whither I Know Not; But The Hour's Gone By When Albion's Lessening Shores Could Grieve Or Glad Mine Eye.

Think Not I Am What I Appear.

I Hate All Pain, Given Or Received; We Have Enough Within Us The Meanest Vassal As The Loftiest Monarch, Not To Add To Each Other's Natural Burden Of Mortal Misery.

Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

Self Praise Is No Praise At All.