There Is No Passion, More Spectral Or

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

O Fame! If I Ever Took Delight In Thy Praises, Twas Less For The Sake Of Thy High-sounding Phrases, Than To See The Bright Eyes Of The Dear One Discover The Thought That I Was Not Unworthy To Love Her.

Just As Old Age Is Creeping On Space, And Clouds Come O'er The Sunset Of Our Day, They Kindly Leave Us, Though Not Quite Alone, But In Good Company--the Gout Or Stone.

A Man Of Eighty Has Outlived Probably Three New Schools Of Painting, Two Of Architecture And Poetry And A Hundred In Dress.

A Feast Not Profuse But Elegant; More Of Salt [refinement] Than Of Expense.