Medicine For The Dead Is Too Late

Suffering Itself Does Less Afflict The Senses Than The Apprehension Of Suffering.

We Excuse Our Sloth Under The Pretext Of Difficulty.

Give Me The Boy Who Rouses When He Is Praised, Who Profits When He Is Encouraged And Who Cries When He Is Defeated. Such A Boy Will Be Fired By Ambition; He Will Be Stung By Reproach, And Animated By Preference; Never Shall I Apprehend Any Bad Consequences From Idleness In Such A Boy.

In A Crowd, On A Journey, At A Banquet Even, A Line Of Thought Can Itself Provide Its Own Seclusion.

Verse Satire Indeed Is Entirely Our Own.