My heart is its own grave!

Do anything but love; or if thou lovest and art a woman, hide thy love from him whom thou dost worship; never let him know how dear he is; flit like a bird before him; lead him from tree to tree, from flower to flower; but be not won, or thou wilt, like that bird, when caught and caged, be left to pine neglected and perish in forgetfulness.

Experience teaches, it is true; but she never teaches in time.

Curiosity and courtesy are very often at variance.

Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?

who has not experienced, at some time or other, that words had all the relief of tears?

We are ourselves our happiness.