Self praise is no praise at all.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.