A Few Drops Sprinkled On The Torch

All Men Who Have Turned Out Worth Anything Have Had The Chief Hand In Their Own Education.

Never Was Flattery Lost On A Poet's Ear; A Simple Race, They Waste Their Toil For The Vain Tribute Of A Smile.

The Schoolmaster Is Termed, Classically, Ludi Magister, Because He Deprives Boys Of Their Play.

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.

War Is The Only Game In Which Both Sides Lose.