A Good Horse Makes Short Miles.

The Worst Of Misery Is When A Nature Framed For Noblest Things Condemns Itself In Youth To Petty Joys, And, Sore Athirst For Air, Breathes Scanty Life Gasping From Out The Shallows.

A Woman's Rank Lies In The Fulness Of Her Womanhood: Therein Alone She Is Royal.

We Want People To Feel With Us More Than To Act For Us.

There Are Glances Of Hatred That Stab, And Raise No Cry Of Murder.

Half The Sorrows Of Women Would Be Averted If They Could Repress The Speech They Know To Be Useless-nay, The Speech They Have Resolved Not To Utter.