A dedication is a wooden leg.
Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world.
He that's ungrateful has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.
Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.