Who Shall Set A Limit To The

Nor Sequent Centuries Could Hitorbit And Sum Of Shakespeare's Wit.

There Is No Den In The Wide World To Hide A Rogue. Commit A Crime, And The Earth Is Made Of Glass. Commit A Crime, And It Seems As If A Coat Of Snow Fell On The Ground, Such As Reveals In The Woods The Track Of Every Partridge And Fox And Squirrel And Mole.

Let Us Take Our Bloated Nothingness Out Of The Path Of The Divine Circuits.

Love Should Make Joy; But Our Benevolence Is Unhappy. Our Sunday-schools, And Churches, And Pauper-societies Are Yokes To The Neck. We Pain Ourselves To Please Nobody.

There Is No True Orator Who Is Not A Hero.