There is a southern proverb - fine words butter no parsnips.
Many a law, many a commandment have I broken, but my word never.
I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.
Silence, maiden; thy tongue outruns thy discretion.
He that follows the advice of reason has a mind that is elevated above the reach of injury; that sits above the clouds, in a calm and quiet ether, and with a brave indifferency hears the rolling thunders grumble and burst under his feet.
Do not Christians and Heathens, and Jews and Gentiles, and poets and philosophers, unite in allowing the starry influences?