Youth, ah, Youth! all men's desire and sorrow.
My own passion, all my life, has been non-collecting.
The hand betrays the heart.
Life is a breathing-space between two eternities, a holiday with appalling realities behind and before.
Idleness, simon-pure, from which all manner of good springs like seed from a fallow soil, is sure to be misnamed and misconstrued.
Character demonstrates itself in trifles.