Necessity, thou mother of the world!

Teas, Where small talk dies in agonies.

To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night.

Constancy has nothing virtuous in itself, independently of the pleasure it confers, and partakes of the temporizing spirit of vice in proportion as it endures tamely moral defects of magnitude in the object of its indiscreet choice.

Know ye what it is to be a child? It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief.

History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

God is a hypothesis, and, as such, stands in need of proof; the onus probandi rests on the theist.