There seems a life in hair, though it be dead.

A pleasure so exquisite as almost to amount to pain.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter, Stolen kisses much completer, Stolen looks are nice in chapels, Stolen, stolen be your apples.

With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks To lie and read in, sloping into brooks.

I entrench myself in my books equally against sorrow and the weather.

There is scarcely a single joy or sorrow within the experience of our fellow-creatures which we have not tasted; yet the belief, in the good and beautiful has never forsaken us. It has been medicine to us in sickness, richness in poverty, and the best part of all that ever delighted us in health and success.

Improvement is nature.