Nothing profits more than self-esteem, grounded on what is just and right.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

Nor aught availed him now to have built in heaven high towers; nor did he scrape by all his engines, but was headlong sent with his industrious crew to build in hell.

Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.

For what can war, but endless war, still breed?

Him that yon soars on golden wing, guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, the Cherub Contemplation.

So shall the world go on, To good malignant, to bad men benign, Under her own weight groaning.