I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbr >>
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. >>
Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself >>
Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a >>
I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in >>
Old age has a great sense of calm and freedom. When the passions have >>
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!