Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excite >>
The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be >>
I have no faith in human perfectibility. I think that human exertion w >>
Cowards die a thousand deaths. The valiant taste of death but once. >>
The cowards never started -- and the weak died along the way. >>
Man gives every reason for his conduct save one, every excuse for his >>
That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.