Like The Greatest Virtue And The Worst

We Learn Our Virtues From Our Friends Who Love Us; Our Faults From The Enemy Who Hates Us. We Cannot Easily Discover Our Real Character From A Friend. He Is A Mirror, On Which The Warmth Of Our Breath Impedes The Clearness Of The Reflection.

A Woman Who Could Always Love Would Never Grow Old; And The Love Of Mother And Wife Would Often Give Or Preserve Many Charms If It Were Not Too Often Combined With Parental And Conjugal Anger. There Remains In The Face Of Women Who Are Naturally Serene And Peaceful, And Of Those Rendered So By Religion, An After-spring, And Later An After-summer, The Reflex Of Their Most Beautiful Bloom.

A Sky Full Of Silent Suns.

A Man Never Discloses His Own Character So Clearly As When He Describes Anothers.

He Thought Of The Mouldering Child, Which Laid Its Withered Thin Arms Around His Soul, As If It Were His Own, And To Whom Death Had Given As Much As A God Gave To Endymion, — Sleep, Eternal Youth, And Immortality.