Yet Then From All My Grief, O

There Is Nothing That Makes Its Way More Directly Into The Soul Than Beauty.

A Perfect Tragedy Is The Noblest Production Of Human Nature.

Fame Is A Good So Wholly Foreign To Our Natures That We Have No Faculty In The Soul Adapted To It, Nor Any Organ In The Body To Relish It; An Object Of Desire Placed Out Of The Possibility Of Fruition.

On You, My Lord, With Anxious Fear I Wait, And From Your Judgment Must Expect My Fate.

A Jealous Man Is Very Quick In His Application: He Knows How To Find A Double Edge In An Invective, And To Draw A Satire On Himself Out Of A Panegyrick On Another.