Whoever benefits his enemy with straightforward intention that man's enemies will soon fold their hands in devotion.

The motives and purposes of authors are not always so pure and high, as, in the enthusiasm of youth, we sometimes imagine. To many the trumpet of fame is nothing but a tin horn to call them home, like laborers from, the field, at dinner-time, and they think themselves lucky to get the dinner.

When thou are not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers.

Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart

From dust thou art to dust returneth, was not spoken of the soul.

Let him not boast who puts his armor on as he who puts it off, the battle done.