Some Touch Of Nature's Genial Glow.

Thou And I Are But The Blind Instruments Of Some Irresistible Fatality, That Hurries Us Along, Like Goodly Vessels Driving Before The Storm, Which Are Dashed Against Each Other, And So Perish.

Some Feelings Are To Mortals Given With Less Of Earth In Them Than Heaven.

Good Wine Needs Neither Bush Nor Preface To Make It Welcome. And They Drank The Red Wine Through The Helmet Barr'd.

There Never Will Exist Anything Permanently Noble And Excellent In The Character Which Is A Stranger To Resolute Self-denial.

The Misery Of Keeping A Dog Is His Dying So Soon. But, To Be Sure, If He Lived For Fifty Years And Then Died, What Would Become Of Me?