Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.

Words are but pictures of our thoughts.

Interest makes all seem reason that leads to it.

Great souls forgive not injuries till time has put their enemies within their power, that they may show forgiveness is their own.