Things always seem fairer when we look back at them, and it is out of that inaccessible tower of the past that Longing leans and beckons.

A word once vulgarized can never be rehabilitated.

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.

There is no better ballast for keeping the mind steady on its keel, and saving it from all risk of crankiness, than business.

Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.

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

A weed is no more than a flower in disguise, Which is seen through at once, if love give a man eyes.