I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.

O woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!

In listening mood she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.

Without courage there cannot be truth, and without truth there can be no other virtue.

A lawyer without history or literature is a mechanic, a mere working mason; if he possesses some knowledge of these, he may venture to call himself an architect.

The paths of virtue, though seldom those of worldly greatness, are always those of pleasantness and peace.

Every hour has its end.