Death Is The Only Sovereign Whom No

True Friendship Is Like Sound Health; The Value Of It Is Seldom Known Until It Is Lost.

Ladies Of Fashion Starve Their Happiness To Feed Their Vanity, And Their Love To Feed Their Pride.

There Were Moments Of Despondency When Shakespeare Thought Himself No Poet, And Raphael No Painter; When The Greatest Wits Have Doubted The Excellence Of Their Happiest Efforts.

He That Dies A Martyr Proves That He Was Not A Knave, But By No Means That He Was Not A Fool.

It Is Not So Difficult A Task To Plant New Truths, As To Root Out Old Errors; For There Is This Paradox In Men, They Run After That Which Is New, But Are Prejudiced In Favor Of That Which Is Old.