No Good Book, Or Good Thing Of

The Modern Majesty Consists In Work. What A Man Can Do Is His Greatest Ornament, And He Always Consults His Dignity By Doing It.

Lives The Man That Can Figure A Naked Duke Of Windlestraw Addressing A Naked House Of Lords?

Every Poet, Be His Outward Lot What It May, Finds Himself Born In The Midst Of Prose; H E Has To Struggle From The Littleness And Obstruction Of An Actual World Into The Freedom And Infinitude Of An Ideal.

Are Not Our Greatest Men As Good As Lost? The Men That Walk Daily Among Us, Warming Us, Feeding Us, Walk Shrouded In Darkness, Mere Mythic Men.

"love Is Not Altogether A Delirium," Says He Elsewhere; "yet Has It Many Points In Common Therewith."