All history is but the lengthened shadow of a great man.
Some of your griefs you have cured, And the sharpest you still have survived, But what torments of grief you've endured From evils that never arrived.
I covet truth; beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth.
Tis good-will makes intelligence.
Literature is eavesdropping.
Life too near paralyses art.