It is impossible, in our condition of Society, not to be sometimes a Snob.
If I mayn't tell you what I feel, what is the use of a friend?
People hate as they love, unreasonably.
It's a great comfort to some people to groan over their imaginary ills.
'Tis strange what a man may do, and a woman yet think him an angel.
Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin That never has known the barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win, This is the way that boys begin. Wait till you come to Forty Year.