When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he pondered o'er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death: "Thru Time I'll save my love!" he said. . . yet Beauty vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead. . . -Ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair: "Who'd learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his sonnet there". . . So all my words, however true, might sing you to a thousandth June, and no one ever know that you were Beauty for an afternoon.

Riches have never fascinated me, unless combined with the greatest charm or distinction.

All that kept her from breaking was that it was not an image of strength that was leaving her; she would be just as strong without him.

Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.

We all must try to be good.

Life is progressive, no matter what our intentions.

Often a man can play the helpless child in front of a woman, but he can almost never bring it off when he feels most like a helpless child.