To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.

Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

Bells are musics laughter.

And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.

Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.