We Seek Our Happiness Outside Ourselves, And

There Is No Excess In The World So Commendable As Excessive Gratitude.

The Sweetest Of All Sounds Is That Of The Voice Of The Woman We Love.

An Inconstant Woman Is One Who Is No Longer In Love; A False Woman Is One Who Is Already In Love With Another Person; A Fickle Woman Is She Who Neither Knows Whom She Loves Nor Whether She Loves Or Not; And The Indifferent Woman, One Who Does Not Love At All.

When We Are Dead We Are Praised By Those Who Survive Us, Though We Frequently Have No Other Merit Than That Of Being No Longer Alive.

Life Is Short And Tedious, And Is Wholly Spent In Wishing; We Trust To Find Rest And Enjoyment At Some Future Time, Often At An Age When Our Best Blessings, Youth And Health, Have Already Left Us. When At Last I That Time Has Arrived, It Surprises Us In The Midst Of Fresh Desires; We Have Got No Farther When We Are Attacked By A Fever Which Kills Us; If We Had Been Cured, It Would Only Have Been To Give Us More Time For Other Desires.