Creation's Heir, The World, The World Is

What Cities, As Great As This, Have... Promised Themselves Immortality! Posterity Can Hardly Trace The Situation Of Some. The Sorrowful Traveller Wanders Over The Awful Ruins Of Others... Here Stood Their Citadel, But Now Grown Over With Weeds; There Their Senate-house, But Now The Haunt Of Every Noxious Reptile; Temples And Theatres Stood Here, Now Only An Undistinguished Heap Of Ruins.

The Heart Of Every Man Lies Open To The Shafts Of Correction If The Archer Can Take Proper Aim.

The Wretch Condemn'd With Life To Part, Still, Still On Hope Relies; And Every Pang That Rends The Heart Bids Expectation Rise.

In My Time, The Follies Of The Town Crept Slowly Among Us, But Now They Travel Faster Than A Stagecoach.

Error Is Always Talkative.