Shakespeare Is Not Our Poet, But The

It Appears To Be Among The Laws Of Nature, That The Mighty Of Intellect Should Be Pursued And Carped By The Little, As The Solitary Flight Of One Great Bird Is Followed By The Twittering Petulance Of Many Smaller.

O What A Thing Is Age! Death Without Death's Quiet.

The Assailant Is Often In The Right; That The Assailed Is Always.

This Is The Pleasantest Part Of Life. Oblivion Throws Her Light Coverlet Over Our Infancy; And, Soon After We Are Out Of The Cradle We Forget How Soundly We Had Been Slumbering, And How Delightful Were Our Dreams. Toil And Pleasure Contend For Us Almost The Instant We Rise From It: And Weariness Follows Whichever Has Carried Us Away. We Stop Awhile, Look Around Us, Wonder To Find We Have Completed The Circle Of Existence, Fold Our Arms, And Fall Asleep Again.

Do Not Expect To Be Acknowledged For What You Are, Much Less For What You Would Be; Since No One Can Well Measure A Great Man But Upon The Bier.