Since Trifles Make The Sum Of Human

No Adulation; 'tis The Death Of Virtue; Who Flatters, Is Of All Mankind The Lowest Save He Who Courts The Flattery.

Glory Darts Her Soul-pervading Ray On Thrones And Cottages, Regardless Still Of All The Artificial Nice Distinctions Vain Human Customs Make.

There Is Scarcely Any Fault In Another Which Offends Us More Than Vanity, Though Perhaps There Is None That Really Injures Us So Little.

The Keen Spirit Seizes The Prompt Occasion.

The Ingenuity Of Self-deception Is Inexhaustible.