There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

A man may love a woman perfectly, and yet by no means ignorantly maintain a thousand women have not larger eyes. Enough that she alone has looked at him with eyes that, large or small, have won his soul.

We have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts.

What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed - and not for pay? Absurd - or insincere?

Some people always sigh in thanking God.

Where Christ brings His cross He brings His presence; and where He is none are desolate, and there is no room for despair.