Nature has given us two ears but only one mouth.
The noble lord is the Rupert of debate.
I am the blank page between the Old and the New Testament.
As we retain but a faint remembrance of our felicity, it is but fair that the smartest stroke of sorrow should, if bitter, at least be brief.
Most people die with their music still locked up inside them.
Why should one say that the machine does not live? It breathes, for its breath forms the atmosphere of some towns.