For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by this involuntary appeal-this cry from soul to soul, without other consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully-illuminated life.

So to live is heaven; to make undying music in the world.

In poor Rosamond's mind there was not room enough for luxuries to look small in.

Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. Even with no motive to be false, it is very hard to say the exact truth.

There's no disappointment in memory, and one's exaggerations are always on the good side.

Loquacity with tongue or pen is its own reward -- or, punishment.

What quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal needs?