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

The fancy is indeed no other than a mode of memory emancipated from the order of time and space.

How like herrings and onions our vices are in the morning after we have committed them.

He holds him with his glittering eye, And listens like a three years' child.

Wherever you find a sentence musically worded, of true rhythm and melody in the words, there is something deep and good in the meaning too.

He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.

I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children, and what an inhuman world without the aged.