They talk about their Pilgrim blood, their birthright high and holy! a mountain-stream that ends in mud thinks is melancholy.

Granting our wish is one of Fate's saddest jokes.

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!

Truly there is a tide in the affairs of men; but there is no gulf-stream setting forever in one direction.

Incredulity robs us of many pleasures, and gives us nothing in return.

In the scale of the destinies, brawn will never weigh so mach as brain.

In the parliament of the present every man represents a constituency of the past.