In Solitude We Have Our Dreams To

It Is Man's Own Fault, It Is From Want Of Use, If His Mind Grows Torpid In Old Age.

The Real Satisfaction Which Praise Can Afford, Is When What Is Repeated Aloud Agrees With The Whispers Of Conscience, By Showing Us That We Have Not Endeavored To Deserve Well In Vain.

I Am Not So Lost In Lexicography As To Forget That Words Are The Daughters Of Earth, And That Things Are The Sons Of Heaven.

A Fly, Sir, May Sting A Stately Horse And Make Him Wince; But, One Is But An Insect, And The Other Is A Horse Still.

Politics Are Now Nothing More Than Means Of Rising In The World.