A great man leaves clean work behind him, and requires no sweeper up of the chips.

The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech: It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.

Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand.

The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last; and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.

The essence of all beauty, I call love.

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

I work with patience, which is almost power.