A poem round and perfect as a star.

I go into my library and all history unrolls before me.

Eternity doth wear upon her face the veil of time. They only see the veil, and thus they know not what they stand so near!

We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once.

If we were to live here always, with no other care than how to feed, clothe, and house ourselves, life would be a very sorry business. It is immeasurably heightened by the solemnity of death.

Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.

Not on the stage alone, in the world also, a man's real character comes out best in his asides.