Silence, Maiden; Thy Tongue Outruns Thy Discretion.

Commend Me To Sterling Honesty Though Clad In Rags.

When Thinking About Companions Gone, We Feel Ourselves Doubly Alone.

Guilt, Though It May Attain Temporal Splendor, Can Never Confer Real Happiness; The Evil Consequences Of Our Crimes Long Survive Their Commission, And, Like The Ghosts Of The Murdered, Forever Haunt The Steps Of The Malefactor; While The Paths Of Virtue, Though Seldom Those Of Worldly Greatness, Are Always Those Of Pleasantness And Peace.

Come Forth, Old Man,--thy Daughter's Side Is Now The Fitting Place For Thee: When Time Has Quell'd The Oak's Bold Pride, The Youthful Tendril Yet May Hide, The Ruins Of The Parent Tree.

Literature Is A Great Staff, But A Very Sorry Crutch.