A Preface Is A Species Of Literary

Hope Is Love's Happiness, But Not Its Life.

That Which Is Always Within Our Reach, Is Always The Last Thing We Take; And The Chances Are, That What We Can Do Every Day, We Never Do At All.

My Tears Are Buried In My Heart, Like Cave-locked Fountains Sleeping.

So Much To Win, So Much To Lose, No Marvel That I Fear To Choose.

Conscience, Like A Child, Is Soon Lulled To Sleep.