Great souls endure in silence.
Why should I deem myself to be a chisel, when I could be the artist?
Sentimental poetry differs from naive poetry in that it relates the real state at which the latter stops to ideas and applies ideas to that reality.
Man is made of ordinary things, and habit is his nurse.
Wine invents nothing; it only tattles.
Let him that sows the serpent's teeth not hope to reap a joyous harvest. Every crime has, in the moment of its perpetration, its own avenging angel,--dark misgivings at the inmost heart.