Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, and cries reproachful: Was it then my praise, and not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth.

Blessed are they who have nothing to say and who cannot be persuaded to say it.

The surest plan to make a man is, think him so.

Christ was the first true democrat that ever breathed, as the old dramatist Dekkar said he was the first true gentleman.

Who is it needs such flawless shafts as fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, or hits the white so surely?

Idleness induces caprice.

These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred, Each softly lucent as a rounded moon; The diver Omar plucked them from their bed, Fitzgerald strung them on an English thread.