The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
No work is worse than overwork; the mind preys on itself,--the most unwholesome of food.
Let us live for the beauty of our own reality.
As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances, May that side the sun 's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!
Man, while he loves, is never quite depraved.
She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.