Wordsworth went to the Lakes, but he was never a lake poet. He found in stones the sermons he had already hidden there.

Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die. This shillyshallying with the question is absurd.

Every one is worthy of love, except him who thinks that he is. Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling.

Memory is the diary that chronicles things that never have happened and couldn't possibly have happened.

Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.

Now and then it is a joy to have one's table red with wine and roses.

The intellect is not a serious thing, and never has been. It is an instrument on which one plays, that is all.