Time makes ancient good uncouth.

Reading Chaucer is like brushing through the dewy grass at sunrise.

There is no self-delusion more fatal than that which makes the conscience dreamy with the anodyne of lofty sentiments, while the life is groveling and sensual

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne.

There is no better ballast for keeping the mind steady on its keel, and saving it from all risk of crankiness, than business.

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave?

To genius life never grows commonplace.