Mercy more becomes a magistrate than the vindictive wrath which men call justice.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends, Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations, But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

He spoke well who said that graves are the footprints of angels.

The Mormons make the marriage ring, like the ring of Saturn, fluid, not solid, and keep it in its place by numerous satellites.

Were a star quenched on high,For ages would its light,Still travelling downward from the sky,Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies,For years beyond our ken,The light he leaves behind him liesUpon the paths of men.