There is a measure in everything. There are fixed limits beyond which and short of which right cannot find a resting place.

Drive Nature from your door with a pitchfork, and she will return again and again.

Who then is sane? He who is not a fool.

There is a mean in all things; even virtue itself has stated limits; which not being strictly observed, it ceases to be virtue.

One wanders to the left, another to the right. Both are equally in error, but, are seduced by different delusions.

Glory drags all men along, low as well as high, bound captive at the wheels of her glittering car.

The power of daring anything their fancy suggest, as always been conceded to the painter and the poet.