To Die Is Landing On Some Distant

He Who Trusts A Secret To His Servant Makes His Own Man His Master.

Beauty, Like Ice, Our Footing Does Betray; Who Can Tread Sure On The Smooth, Slippery Way: Pleased With The Surface, We Glide Swiftly On, And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

The Soft Complaining Flute, In Dying Notes, Discovers The Woes Of Hopeless Lovers.

Affability, Mildness, Tenderness, And A Word Which I Would Fain Bring Back To Its Original Signification Of Virtue,--i Mean Good-nature,--are Of Daily Use; They Are The Bread Of Mankind And Staff Of Life.