There is no more terrible woe upon earth than the woe of the stricken brain, which remembers the days of its strength, the living light of its reason, the sunrise of its proud intelligence, and knows that these have passed away like a tale that is told.

Talent wears well, genius wears itself out; talent drives a snug brougham in fact; genius, a sun-chariot in fancy.

Fame! it is the flower of a day, that dies when the next sun rises.

There is no knife that cuts so sharply and with such poisoned blade as treachery.

Count art by gold, and it fetters the feet it once winged.

Why is youth so short and age so long?

Honor is an old-world thing; but it smells sweet to those in whose hand it is strong.