Business before pleasure.
Our first love-letter ... There is so much to be said, and which no words seems exactly to say - the dread of saying too much is so nicely balanced by the fear of saying too little. Hope borders on presumption, and fear on reproach.
The heart's hushed secret in the soft dark eye.
Eyes that droop like summer flowers.
My heart is its own grave!
And this is woman's fate: all her affections are called into life by winning flatteries, and then thrown back upon themselves to perish; and her heart, her trusting heart, filled with weak tenderness, is left to bleed or break!
Sneering springs out of the wish to deny; and wretched must that state of mind be that wishes to take refuge in doubt.
Memory has many conveniences, and, among others, that of foreseeing things as they have afterwards happened.
The rich know not how hard it is to be of needful rest and needful food debarred.
How disappointment tracks the steps of hope.
A woman's fame is the tomb of her happiness.
A blossom full of promise is life's joy, That never comes to fruit. Hope, for a time, Suns the young floweret in its gladsome light, And it looks flourishing--a little while-- 'T is pass'd, we know not whither, but 't is gone.
Assuredly, meeting after absence, is one of - ah, no! - it is life's most delicious feeling.
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.
Fame is bought by happiness.
How often, in this cold and bitter world, is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; we wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness.
marriage is like money - seem to want it, and you never get it.
Curiosity and courtesy are very often at variance.
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.
anybody's applause is better than nobody's.
Conscience, like a child, is soon lulled to sleep.
charity is a calm, severe duty; it must be intellectual, to be advantageous. It is a strange mistake that it should ever be considered a merit; its fulfillment is only what we owe to each other, and is a debt never paid to its full extent.
A preface is a species of literary luxury, where an author, like a lover, is privileged to be egotistical.
Farewell's a bitter word to say.
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