Death Had His Grudge Against Me, And

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

When The Poet Died His Cat Was Put To Death And Mummified.

Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At Best But An Empty Renown.

For Virtue Only Finds Eternal Fame.

There Is No Lighter Burden, Nor More Agreeable, Than A Pen. Other Pleasures Fail Us Or Wound Us While They Charm, But The Pen We Take Up Rejoicing And Lay Down With Satisfaction, For It Has The Power To Advantage Not Only Its Lord And Master, But Many Others As Well, Even Though They Be Far Away - Sometimes, Indeed, Though They Be Not Born For Thousands Of Years To Come.