Make not thyself the judge of any man.

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, - always do what you are afraid to do.

Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.

O suffering, sad humanity! O ye afflicted ones, who lie Steeped to the lips in misery, Longing, yet afraid to die, Patient, though sorely tried!

The world loves a spice of wickedness.

Talk not of wasted affection - affection never was wasted.