Tears are akin to prayer - Pharisees parade prayers, imposters parade tears.

What ever our wandering our happiness will always be found within a narrow compass, and in the middle of the objects more immediately within our reach.

Centuries roll, customs change, but, ever since the time of the earliest mother, woman yearns to be the soother.

Poets alone are sure of immortality; they are the truest diviners of nature.

Ere yet we yearn for what is out of our reach, we are still in the cradle. When wearied out with our yearnings, desire again falls asleep; we are on the death-bed.

Keep unscathed the good name; keep out of peril the honor without which even your battered old soldier who is hobbling into his grave on half-pay and a wooden leg would not change with Achilles.

Beautiful eyes in the face of a handsome woman are like eloquence to speech.