Self praise is no praise at all.

The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.

A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.