The world loves a spice of wickedness.

See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!

Prayer is innocence's friend; and willingly flieth incessant 'twist the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven.

Among the noblest in the land - Though man may count himself the least - That man I honor and revere, Who without favor, without fear, In the great city dares to stand, The friend of every friendless beast.

The hooded clouds, like friars, Tell their beads in drops of rain.

Men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive in what they do than the approbation of men, which is fame, namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself.

In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.