Every Man Who Would Do Anything Well,

The Only Joy In His Being Mine, Is That The Not Mine Is Mine.

It Seems As If The Day Was Not Wholly Profane In Which We Have Given Heed To Some Natural Object.

Pines A Thousand Years Old. Every Year They Must Go Farther For Them: They Recede, Like Beavers And Indians, Before The White Man.

All The Devils Respect Virtue.

All Men Are Poets At Heart. They Serve Nature For Bread, But Her Loveliness Overcomes Them Sometimes.