Is There Anything So Grave And Serious

Of All Our Infirmities, The Most Savage Is To Despise Our Being.

It Is Not Death, It Is Dying That Alarms Me.

The Good, Supreme, Divine Poetry Is Above The Rules And Reason. Whoever Discerns Its Beauty With A Firm, Sedate Gaze Does Not See It, Any More Than He Sees The Splendor Of A Lightning Flash. It Does Not Persuade Our Judgement, It Ravishes And Overwhelms It.

Our Great And Glorious Masterpiece Is To Live Appropriately.

How Many Worthy Men Have We Known To Survive Their Own Reputation, Who Have Seen And Suffered The Honor And Glory Most Justly Acquired In Their Youth, Extinguished In Their Own Presence?