Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.

Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

I will be a man among men; and no longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth be mine a life of action and reality! I will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness.

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.