Goodness Does Not More Certainly Make Men

When A Woman Hath Ceased To Be Quite The Same To Us, It Matters Little How Different She Becomes.

Life Is But Sighs; And, When They Cease, 'tis Over.

When The Mind Loses Its Feeling For Elegance, It Grows Corrupt And Groveling, And Seeks In The Crowd What Ought To Be Found At Home.

Such Is Our Impatience, Such Our Hatred Of Procrastination, To Everything But The Amendment Of Our Practices And The Adornment Of Our Nature, One Would Imagine We Were Dragging Time Along By Force, And Not He Us.

Ambition Does Not See The Earth She Treads On: The Rock And The Herbage Are Of One Substance To Her.