Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.

I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

A woman being never at a loss... the devil always sticks by them.