Wherever There Is Excessive Wealth,

There Is A Gravity Which Is Not Austere Nor Captious, Which Belongs Not To Melancholy Nor Dwells In Contraction Of Heart: But Arises From Tenderness And Hangs Upon Reflection.

The Vain Poet Is Of The Opinion That Nothing Of His Can Be Too Much: He Sends To You Basketful After Basketful Of Juiceless Fruit, Covered With Scentless Flowers.

And Modesty, Who, When She Goes, Is Gone For Ever.

Great Men Too Often Have Greater Faults Than Little Men Can Find Room For.

There Is Delight In Singing, Though None Hear Beside The Singer.