If there are words and wrongs like knives, whose deep inflicted lacerations never heal - cutting injuries and insults of serrated and poison-dripping edge - so, too, there are consolations of tone too fine for the ear not fondly and for ever to retain their echo: caressing kindnesses - loved, lingered over through a whole life, recalled with unfaded tenderness, and answering the call with undimmed shine, out of that raven cloud foreshadowing Death himself.

Her coming was my hope each day, Her parting was my pain; The chance that did her steps delay Was ice in every vein.

The man of regular life and rational mind never despairs.

I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.

I don't call you handsome, sir, though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you. Don't flatter me.

flattery would be worse than vain; there is no consolation in flattery.

I am anchored on a resolve you cannot shake. My heart, my conscience shall dispose of my hand - they only. Know this at last.