Time makes ancient good uncouth.

Through aisles of long-drawn centuries my spirit walks in thought.

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

For only by unlearning Wisdom comes.

A word once vulgarized can never be rehabilitated.

It is singular how impatient men are with overpraise of others, how patient of overpraise of themselves; and yet the one does them no injury, while the other may be their ruin.

They talk about their Pilgrim blood, their birthright high and holy! a mountain-stream that ends in mud thinks is melancholy.