Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
Religion, richest favor of the skies.
But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; he does not feel for man.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
In indolent vacuity of thought.