A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.
The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.