Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years,- One minute of heaven is worth them all.

I hate the man who eats without knowing what he’s eating. I doubt his taste in more important things.

Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.

Cards are war, in disguise of a sport.

Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.

To be thankful for what we grasp exceeding our proportion is to add hypocrisy to injustice.

Is the world all grown up? Is childhood dead? Or is there not in the bosom of the wisest and the best some of the child's heart left, to respond to its earliest enchantments?