Lawyers, I Suppose, Were Children Once.

Shut Not Thy Purse-strings Always Against Painted Distress.

He Who Hath Not A Dram Of Folly In His Mixture Hath Pounds Of Much Worse Matter In His Composition.

I Grow Ominously Tired Of Official Confinement. Thirty Years Have I Served The Philistines, And My Neck Is Not Subdued To The Yoke. You Don't Know How Wearisome It Is To Breathe The Air Of Four Pent Walls Without Relief Day After Day, All The Golden Hours Of The Day Between Ten And Four Without Ease Or Interposition ... These Pestilential Clerk-faces Always In One's Dish. O For A Few Years Between The Grave And The Desk!

Separate From The Pleasure Of Your Company, I Don't Much Care If I Never See Another Mountain In My Life.

Mother's Love Grows By Giving.