I have no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desert air.

Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch-hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Barontage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; . . .

A woman of seven and twenty, said Marianne, after pausing a moment, can never hope to feel or inspire affection again.

Marry me. Marry me, my wonderful, darling friend.

Is not poetry the food of love?

“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”