Among The English Authors, Shakespeare Has Incomparably

For Ever Singing As They Shine, The Hand That Made Us Is Divine.

When I Read The Epitaphs Of The Beautiful, Every Inordinate Desire Goes Out; When I Meet With The Grief Of Parents Upon A Tombstone, My Heart Melts With Compassion; When I See The Tomb Of The Parents Themselves, I Consider The Vanity Of Grieving For Those Whom We Must Quickly Follow: When I See Kings Lying By Those Who Deposed Them, When I Consider Rival Wits Placed Side By Side, Or The Holy Men That Divided The World With Their Contests And Disputes, I Reflect With Sorrow And Astonishment On The Little Competitions, Factions, And Debates Of Mankind.

I'm Weary Of Conjectures, - This Must End 'em. Thus Am I Doubly Armed: My Death And Life, My Bane And Antidote, Are Both Before Me: This In A Moment Brings Me To An End; But This Informs Me I Shall Never Die. The Soul, Secured In Her Existence, Smiles At The Drawn Dagger, And Defies Its Point. The Stars Shall Fade Away, The Sun Himself Grow Dim With Age, And Nature Sink In Years; But Thou Shalt Flourish In Immortal Youth, Unhurt Amidst The War Of Elements, The Wrecks Of Matter, And The Crush Of Worlds.

The Care Of Our National Commerce Redounds More To The Riches And Prosperity Of The Public Than Any Other Act Of Government.

A Man Must Be Both Stupid And Uncharitable Who Believes There Is No Virtue Or Truth But On His Own Side.