Greatness, As We Daily See It, Is

The Flame Of Anger, Bright And Brief, Sharpens The Barb Of Love.

It Has Been My Fortune To Love In General Those Men Most Who Have Thought Most Differently From Me, On Subjects Wherein Others Pardon No Discordance. I Think I Have No More Right To Be Angry With A Man, Whose Reason Has Followed Up A Process Different From What Mine Has, And Is Satisfied With The Result, Than With One Who Has Gone To Venice While I Am At Siena, And Who Writes To Me That He Likes The Place.

Of All Failures, To Fail In A Witticism Is The Worst, And The Mishap Is The More Calamitous In A Drawn-out And Detailed One

Despotism Sits Nowhere So Secure As Under The Effigy And Ensigns Of Freedom.

There Is A Vast Deal Of Vital Air In Loving Words.