Life is the jailer, death the angel sent to draw the unwilling bolts and set us free.

The nunneries of silent nooks, the murmured longing of the wood.

Some kind of pace may be got out of the eeriest jade by the near prospect of oats; but the thoroughbred has the spur in his blood.

Reading enables us to see with the keenest eyes, to hear with the finest ears, and listen to the sweetest voices of all time.

All thoughts that mold the age begin deep down within the primitive soul.

Time is, after all, the greatest of poets; and the sons of Memory stand a better chance of being the heirs of Fame.

I tell ye wut, my judgment is you're pooty sure to fail, Ez long 'z the head keeps turnin' back for counsel to the the tail.