Shakespeare Is Not Our Poet, But The

Ridicule Has Followed The Vestiges Of Truth, But Never Usurped Her Place.

There Is No Easy Path Leading Out Of Life, And Few Are The Easy Ones That Lie Within It.

When A Woman Hath Ceased To Be Quite The Same To Us, It Matters Little How Different She Becomes.

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.

Patience, Piety, And Salutary Knowledge Spring Up And Ripen Under The Harrow Of Affliction; Before There Is Wine Or Oil, The Grape Must Be Trodden And The Oil Pressed.