Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
Time elaborately thrown away.
Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.
The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done
Ambition! powerful source of good and ill!