Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.

Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It, makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.

Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

What is revenge but courage to call in our honor's debts, and wisdom to convert others' self-love into our own protection?

And friend received with thumps upon the back.