How Few Of His Friends'

Every Man, However Hopeless His Pretensions May Appear, Has Some Project By Which He Hopes To Rise To Reputation; Some Art By Which He Imagines That The Attention Of The World Will Be Attracted; Some Quality, Good Or Bad, Which Discriminates Him From The Common Herd Of Mortals, And By Which Others May Be Persuaded To Love, Or Compelled To Fear Him.

Cruel With Guilt, And Daring With Despair, The Midnight Murderer Bursts The Faithless Bar; Invades The Sacred Hour Of Silent Rest And Leaves, Unseen, A Dagger In Your Breast.

To Be Happy At Home Is The Ultimate Result Of All Ambition, The End To Which Every Enterprise And Labor Tends, And Of Which Every Desire Prompts The Prosecution.

I Never Desire To Converse With A Man Who Has Written More Than He Has Read.

Was Ever Poet So Trusted Before?