Opposition to a man in love is like oil to fire.
A cruel story runs on wheels, and every hand oils the wheels as they run.
Talent wears well, genius wears itself out; talent drives a snug brougham in fact; genius, a sun-chariot in fancy.
When passion and habit long lie in company it is only slowly and with incredulity that habit awakens to finds its companion fled, itself alone.
Love is cruel as the grave.
age is nothing but death that is conscious.