Silence, maiden; thy tongue outruns thy discretion.

Literature is a great staff, but a very sorry crutch.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like young Lochinvar.

Steady of heart and stout of hand.

I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my grey friar's frock, and all shall be well again.

It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free rendezvous of all travellers, and where the humour of each displays itself, without ceremony or restraint.

Sleep in peace, and wake in joy.