Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

Self-interest is the most ingenious and persuasive of all the agents that deceive our consciences, while by means of it our unhappy and stubborn prejudices operate in their greatest force.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

Is not thy home among the flowers?