Moroseness Is The Evening Of Turbulence.

The Writing Of The Wise Are The Only Riches Our Posterity Cannot Squander.

Children Are What The Mothers Are.

It Often Comes Into My Head That We May Dream When We Are Dead, But I Am Far From Sure We Do. O That It Were So! Then My Rest Would Be Indeed Among The Blest; I Should For Ever Dream Of You.

An Ingenuous Mind Feels In Unmerited Praise The Bitterest Reproof. If You Reject It You Are Unhappy, If You Accept It You Are Undone.

We Cannot Conquer Fate And Necessity, Yet We Can Yield To Them In Such A Manner As To Be Greater Than If We Could.