To die with glory, if one has to die at all, is still, I think, pain for the dier.
Talk sense to a fool and he calls you foolish.
Mobs in their emotions are much like children, subject to the same tantrums and fits of fury.
Oh, trebly blest the placid lot of those whose hearth foundations are in pure love laid, where husband's breast with tempered ardor glows, and wife, oft mother, is in heart a maid!
What else goes wrong for a woman-except her marriage?
If some appalling disaster befalls, there's Always a way for the rich.