For Grief Is Crowned With Consolation.

The Devil Knew What He Did When He Made Men Politic; He Crossed Himself By It.

. . . Nothing In His Life Became Him Like The Leaving It; He Died As One That Had Been Studied In His Death To Throw Away The Dearest Thing He Owed, As 'twere A Careless Trifle.

Love Is . . . A Madness Most Discreet

Tis Now The Very Witching Time Of Night, When Churchyards Yawn And Hell Itself Breathes Out Contagion To This World.

The Soul Of This Man Is His Clothes.