To the old, sorrow is sorrow; to the young, it is despair.
Many an irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity, has come of a hard sorrow.
I love words; they are the quoits, the bows, the staves that furnish the gymnasium of the mind.
Keep true, never be ashamed of doing right.
There are characters which are continually creating collisions and nodes for themselves in dramas which nobody is prepared to act with them. Their susceptibilities will clash against objects that remain innocently quiet.
Blows are sarcasms turned stupid.