To the dear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made of fire, and the character that bends but does not break... I am ever tender and true.

My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it.

What the deuce is to do now?

Misery generates hate.

Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity, or registering wrongs.

Give him enough rope and he will hang himself.

Am I hideous, Jane? Very, sir: you always were, you know.