The Happy Never Say, And Never Hear

Cruelty Is The Highest Pleasure To The Cruel Man; It Is His Love.

Nations, Like Individuals, Interest Us In Their Growth.

Those Who In Living Fill The Smallest Space, In Death Have Often Left The Greatest Void.

Let Me Take Up Your Metaphor. Friendship Is A Vase, Which, When It Is Flawed By Heat Or Violence Or Accident, May As Well Be Broken At Once; It Can Never Be Trusted After. The More Graceful And Ornamental It Was, The More Clearly Do We Discern The Hopelessness Of Restoring It To Its Former State. Coarse Stones, If They Are Fractured, May Be Cemented Again; Precious Stones, Never.

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.