The busiest of living agents are certain dead men's thoughts.

There is no sense of weariness like that which closes in a day of eager and unintermittent pursuit of pleasure. The apple is eaten, but "the core sticks in the throat." Expectation has then given way to ennui, appetite to satiety.

A profusion of fancies and quotations is out of place in a love-letter. True feeling is always direct, and never deviates into by-ways to cull flowers of rhetoric.

Truth, like the sun, submits to be obscured; but, like the sun, only for a time.

In one important respect a man is fortunate in being poor. His responsibility to God is so much the less

Mortal beauty stings while it delights.

Few minds wear out; more rust out.