At the devil's booth are all things sold. Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold.

Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.

If the devil take a less hateful shape to us than to our fathers, he is as busy with us as with them.

It is the privilege of genius that life never grows common place, as it does for the rest of us.

For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth.

Nature, they say, doth dote, And cannot make a man Save on some worn-out plan, Repeating us by rote.