If the poet's forehead was in the clouds, his feet were in the mire.

How noble, also, Byron's thoughts, but how mean his life! Goethe uttered the wisdom of a sage, as did Rousseau, yet their deeds were often those we would expect from a slave with a low brow.

Even of Shakespeare, it is said in the morning he polished his sonnets, while at midnight he poached game from a neighboring estate.

Our era bestows unstinted admiration upon the essays of Lord Bacon.

How noble his aphorisms! How petty his envy and avarice! What scholarship was his, and what cunning also! With what splendor of argument does he plead for the advancement of learning and liberty! With what meanness does he take bribes from the rich against the poor! His mind seems like a palace of marble with splendid galleries and library and banqueting hall, yet in this palace the spider spins its web and vermin make the foundations to be a noisome place.
In all ages also the intellect of the common people has discerned truth and light that the will has refused to fulfill.