The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend.

Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them

In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost; contracted all, retiring to the breast; but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

Genius involves both envy and calumny.

Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.