A friend of ours, who is an admirer of Isaac Walton, was struck, just as we were, with the likeness of the old angler's face to a fish.
There seems a life in hair, though it be dead.
Mirth itself is too often but melancholy in disguise.
One can love any man that is generous.
Great women belong to history and to self-sacrifice, not to the annals of a stage, however dignified.
Poetry is the breath of beauty.