He That Climbs The Tall Tree Has

Vengeance To God Alone Belongs; But, When I Think Of All My Wrongs My Blood Is Liquid Flame!

Look Not Thou On Beauty's Charming; Sit Thou Still When Kings Are Arming; Taste Not When The Wine-cup Glistens; Speak Not When The People Listens

Chess Is A Sad Waste Of Brains.

Perhaps The Perusal Of Such Works May, Without Injustice, Be Compared With The Use Of Opiates, Baneful, When Habitually And Constantly Resorted To, But Of Most Blessed Power In Those Moments Of Pain And Of Langour, When The Whole Head Is Sore, And The Whole Heart Sick. If Those Who Rail Indiscriminately At This Species Of Composition, Were To Consider The Quantity Of Actual Pleasure It Produces, And The Much Greater Proportion Of Real Sorrow And Distress Which It Alleviates, Their Philanthropy Ought To Moderate Their Critical Pride, Or Religious Intolerance.

Fortune May Raise Up Or Abuse The Ordinary Mortal, But The Sage And The Soldier Should Have Minds Beyond Her Control.