It is painful to be told that anything is very fine and not be able to feel that it is fine--something like being blind, while people talk of the sky.

There's folks as make bad butter and trusten to the salt t' hide it.

I think I am quite wicked with roses. I like to gather them, and smell them till they have no scent left.

It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses we must plant more trees.

As to memory, it is known that this frail faculty naturally lets drop the facts which are less flattering to our self-love - when it does not retain them carefully as subjects not to be approached, marshy spots with a warning flag over them.

One couldn't carry on life comfortably without a little blindness to the fact that everything has been said better than we can put it ourselves.

In high vengeance there is noble scorn.