Truth Sometimes Corner Unawares Upon Caution, And

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.

Where Power Is Absent We May Find The Robe Of Genius, But We Miss The Throne.

I Hate False Words, And Seek With Care, Difficulty, And Moroseness, Those That Fit The Thing.

Friendship Is A Vase, Which, When It Is Flawed By Heat, Or Violence, Or Accident, May As Well Be Broken At Once; It Can Never Be Trusted After.

Cruelty Is The Highest Pleasure To The Cruel Man; It Is His Love.