The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue; A string which hath no discord.

Despair doth strike as deep a furrow in the brain as mischief or remorse.

How silent are the winds!

All round the room my silent servants wait, My friends in every season, bright and dim.

Most writers steal a good thing when they can, and when 'Tis safely got 'Tis worth the winning. The worst of 't is we now and then detect em, they ever dream that we suspect em.

Love can take what shape he pleases; and when once begun his fiery inroad in the soul, how vain the after knowledge which his presence gives! We weep or rave; but still he lives, and lives master and lord, amidst pride and tears and pain.

The sea! The sea! The open sea!, The blue, the fresh, the ever free!