All slander must still be strangled in its birth, or time will soon conspire to make it strong enough to overcome the truth.

Honor is the moral conscience of the great.

How much pleasure they lose (and even the pleasures of heroic poesy are not unprofitable) who take away the liberty of a poet, and fetter his feet in the shackles of a historian.

Aubade THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings. He takes this window for the East, And to implore your light he sings- Awake, awake! the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes, But still the lover wonders what they are Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake! break thro' your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!

What one cannot, another can.

All jealousy must be strangled in its birth.

Fame, like the river, is narrowest where it is bred, and broadest afar off.