Each man has his fancy.

But when to-morrow comes, yesterday's morrow will have been already spent: and lo! a fresh morrow will be for ever making away with our years, each just beyond our grasp.

He conquers who endures.

I know you even under the skin.

Lives there the man with soul so dead as to disown the wish to merit the people's applause, and having uttered words worthy to be kept in cedar oil to latest times, to leave behind him rhymes that dread neither herrings nor frankincense.

Is then thy knowledge of no value, unless another know that thou possessest that knowledge?

Oh, what a void there is in things.