Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

A man's as old as he's feeling. A woman as old as she looks.

Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

I never knew a trader in philanthropy who was not wrong in his head or heart somewhere or other.

The history of man for the nine months preceding his birth would, probably, be far more interesting and contain events of greater moment than all the three score and ten years that follow it.

The doing evil to avoid an evil cannot be good.

The whole faculties of man must be exerted in order to call forth noble energies; and he who is not earnestly sincere lives in but half his being, self-mutilated, self-paralyzed.