The deafest man can hear praise, and is slow to think any an excess.

There is a gravity which is not austere nor captious, which belongs not to melancholy nor dwells in contraction of heart: but arises from tenderness and hangs upon reflection.

Fame, they tell you, is air; but without air there is no life for any; without fame there is none for the best.

Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear; Of his strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear.

We talk on principal, but act on motivation.

Those who in living fill the smallest space, In death have often left the greatest void.

The happy never say, and never hear said, farewell.