Goodness Does Not More Certainly Make Men

The Very Beautiful Rarely Love At All; Those Precious Images Are Placed Above The Reach Of The Passions: Time Alone Is Permitted To Efface Them.

States, Like Men, Have Their Growth, Their Manhood, Their Decrepitude, Their Decay.

I Strove With None, For None Was Worth My Strife. Nature I Loved And, Next To Nature, Art: I Warm'd Both Hands Before The Fire Of Life; It Sinks, And I Am Ready To Depart.

Every Great Writer Is A Writer Of History, Let Him Treat On Almost What Subject He May.

As We Sometimes Find One Thing While We Are Looking For Another, So, If Truth Escaped Me, Happiness And Contentment Fell In My Way.