We Fancy Men Are Individuals; So Are

There Is A Blessed Necessity By Which The Interest Of Men Is Always Driving Them To The Right; And, Again, Making All Crime Mean And Ugly.

Life Loiters At The Book's First Page,-- Ah! Could We Turn The Leaf.

Tis Weak And Vicious People Who Cast The Blame On Fate. The Right Use Of Fate Is To Bring Up Our Conduct To The Loftiness Of Nature.

Our Poets Are Men Of Talents Who Sing, And Not The Children Of Music.

Do What We Can, Summer Will Have Its Flies.