Shopping, true feminine felicity!
... true love is like religion, it hath its silence and its sanctity.
The wind has a language, I would I could learn! Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern, Sometimes it comes like a low sweet song, And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along, And the forest is lull'd by the dreamy strain, And slumber sinks down on the wandering main, And its crystal arms are folded in rest, And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.
Curiosity is its own suicide.
To be rude is as good as being clever.
There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness.
... many a heart is caught in the rebound ... Pride may be soothed by the ready devotion of another; vanity may be excited the more keenly by recent mortification.
How very satisfactory those discussions must be, where each party retains their own opinion!
It merely shews, after all, that affection is a habit.
habit is our idea of eternity.
A sealed book, at whose contents we tremble.
Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?
Hope is love's happiness, but not its life.
Few save the poor feel for the poor.
But ignorance is happiness,When young Hope is to show the way
Alas! the praise given to the ear Ne'er was nor ne'er can be sincere.
I would give worlds, could I believe One-half that is profess'd me; Affection! could I think it Thee, When Flattery has caress'd me.
I never cast a flower away, A gift of one who car'd for me; A flower--a faded flower, But it was done reluctantly.
My heart is its own grave!
One of the greatest of all mental pleasures is to have our thoughts often divined: ever entered into with sympathy.
Affection exaggerates its own offenses.
anybody's applause is better than nobody's.
in came ... a baby, eloquent as infancy usually is, and like most youthful orators, more easily heard than understood.
Business before pleasure.
Of all false assertions that ever went into the world under the banner of a great name and the mail armor of a well-turned phrase, Locke's comparison of the mind to a blank sheet of paper appears to me among the most untrue.
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