A Modest Woman, Dressed Out In All

What Cities, As Great As This, Have... Promised Themselves Immortality! Posterity Can Hardly Trace The Situation Of Some. The Sorrowful Traveller Wanders Over The Awful Ruins Of Others... Here Stood Their Citadel, But Now Grown Over With Weeds; There Their Senate-house, But Now The Haunt Of Every Noxious Reptile; Temples And Theatres Stood Here, Now Only An Undistinguished Heap Of Ruins.

Silence Is Become His Mother Tongue.

Fine Declamation Does Not Consist In Flowery Periods, Delicate Allusions Of Musical Cadences, But In A Plain, Open, Loose Style, Where The Periods Are Long And Obvious, Where The Same Thought Is Often Exhibited In Several Points Of View.

To The Last Moment Of His Breath, On Hope The Wretch Relies; And Even The Pang Preceding Death Bids Expectation Rise.

Every Acknowledgment Of Gratitude Is A Circumstance Of Humiliation; And Some Are Found To Submit To Frequent Mortifications Of This Kind, Proclaiming What Obligations They Owe, Merely Because They Think It In Some Measure Cancels The Debt.