Yet Happiness Isn't Something You

Bright Was The Summer Of 1296. The War Which Had Desolated Scotland Was Then At An End.

When The Cup Of Any Sensual Pleasure Is Drained To The Bottom, There Is Always Poison In The Dregs.

None Are Fit Judges Of Greatness But Those Who Are Capable Of It.

Virtue, Without The Graces, Is Like A Rich Diamond Unpolished--it Hardly Looks Better Than A Common Pebble; But When The Hand Of The Master Rubs Off The Roughness, And Forms The Sides Into A Thousand Brilliant Surfaces, It Is Then That We Acknowledge Its Worth, Admire Its Beauty, And Long To Wear It In Our Bosoms.

People Do Not Always Understand The Motives Of Sublime Conduct, And When They Are Astonished They Are Very Apt To Think They Ought To Be Alarmed The Truth Is None Are Fit Judges Of Greatness But Those Who Are Capable Of It.