To Fail At All Is

Large Charity Doth Never Soil, But Only Whitens Soft White Hands.

Time Is, After All, The Greatest Of Poets; And The Sons Of Memory Stand A Better Chance Of Being The Heirs Of Fame.

Praise Follows Truth Afar Off, And Only Overtakes Her At The Grave; Plausibility Clings To Her Skirts And Holds Her Back Till Then

The Nurse Of Full-grown Souls Is Solitude.

The One Thing Finished In This Hasty World.