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

Most religion-mongers have bated their paradises with a bit of toasted cheese. They have tempted the body with large promises of possessions in their transmortal El Dorado. Sancho Panza will not quit his chimney-corner, but under promise of imaginary islands to govern.

Blessed are they who have nothing to say and who cannot be persuaded to say it.

Tyrants are but the spawn of Ignorance, Begotten by the slaves they trample on.

No man can produce great things who is not thoroughly sincere in dealing with himself, who would not exchange the finest show for the poorest reality, who does not so love his work that he is not only glad to give himself for it, but finds rather a gain than a sacrifice in the surrender.

How I do love the earth. I feel it thrill under my feet. I feel somehow as if it were conscious of my love, as if something passed into my dancing blood from it.

Old gold has a civilizing virtue which new gold must grow old to be capable of secreting.