Little Men Build Up Great Ones, But

The Moderate Are Not Usually The Most Sincere, For The Same Circumspection Which Makes Them Moderate Makes Them Likewise Retentive Of What Could Give Offence.

Death Stands Above Me, Whispering Low I Know Not What Into My Ear; Of His Strange Language All I Know Is, There Is Not A Word Of Fear.

Cruelty Is The Highest Pleasure To The Cruel Man; It Is His Love.

In The Hours Of Distress And Misery, The Eyes Of Every Mortal Turn To Friendship; In The Hours Of Gladness And Conviviality, What Is Our Want? It Is Friendship. When The Heart Overflows With Gratitude, Or With Any Other Sweet Or Sacred Sentiment, What Is The Word To Which It Would Give Utterance? A Friend.

O What A Thing Is Age! Death Without Death's Quiet.