No mud can soil us but the mud we throw.

A sneer is the weapon of the weak.

Large charity doth never soil, but only whitens soft white hands.

Sorrow is the great idealizer.

Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!

A word once vulgarized can never be rehabilitated.

There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.