The Man Who Is Deserving The Name

To The Timid And Hesitating Everything Is Impossible Because It Seems So.

Of All Vices, Drinking Is The Most Incompatible With Greatness.

The Tear, Down Childhood's Cheek That Flows, Is Like The Dewdrop On The Rose; When Next The Summer Breeze Comes By And Waves The Bush, The Flower Is Dry.

Love, To Her Ear, Was But A Name, Combin'd With Vanity And Shame; Her Hopes, Her Fears, Her Joys, Were All Bounded Within The Cloister Wall.

The Heart-sick Faintness Of The Hope Delayed!