Sorrow itself is not so hard to bear As the thought of sorrow coming. Airy ghosts, That work no harm, do terrify us more Than men in steel with bloody purposes. Death is not dreadful; 'tis the dread of death— We die whene'er we think of it!

Gracious to all, to none subservient, Without offense he spoke the word he meant

Great orators who are not also great writers become very indistinct shadows to the generations following them. The spell vanishes with the voice.

Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate sleep!

With the tears a Land hath shed. Their graves should ever be green.

After a debauch of thunder-shower, the weather takes the pledge and signs it with a rainbow.

Between the reputation of the author living and the reputation of the same author dead there is ever a wide discrepancy.