Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.