I have seen a thousand graves opened, and always perceived that whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remained of those who had died with them. Is not this odd? They go the very first things in youth and yet last the longest in the dust.

What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so.

For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.

A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.

In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.