Let us be merciful as well as just.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall
No man is so poor as to have nothing worth giving.
The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books.
Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.