I Think Hearts Are Very Much Like

A Blossom Full Of Promise Is Life's Joy, That Never Comes To Fruit. Hope, For A Time, Suns The Young Floweret In Its Gladsome Light, And It Looks Flourishing--a Little While-- 't Is Pass'd, We Know Not Whither, But 't Is Gone.

A Woman Only Can Understand A Woman.

A Preface Is A Species Of Literary Luxury, Where An Author, Like A Lover, Is Privileged To Be Egotistical.

Few Save The Poor Feel For The Poor.

No Thoroughly Occupied Man Was Ever Yet Very Miserable.