Almost all men are over anxious. No sooner do they enter the world than they lose that taste for natural and simple pleasures so remarkable in early life. Every hour do they ask themselves what progress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or honor and on they go as their fathers went before them till weary and sick at heart they look back with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their childhood.

To know her was to love her.

Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.

Paris strikes the vulgar part of us infinitely the most, but to a thinking mind London is incomparably the most delightful subject for contemplation.

Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

Think nothing done while aught remains to do.

Then never less alone than when alone.