Heaven Trims Our Lamps While We Sleep.

Dignity Of Manner Always Conveys A Sense Of Reserved Force.

The Books That Charmed Us In Youth Recall The Delight Ever Afterwards; We Are Hardly Persuaded There Are Any Like Them, Any Deserving Our Equal Affections.

Love Is The Key To Felicity, Nor Is There A Heaven To Any Who Love Not. We Enter Paradise Through Its Gates Only.

Of Gifts, There Seems None More Becoming To Offer A Friend Than A Beautiful Book.

The Fable Runs That The Gods Mix Our Pains And Pleasure In One Cup, And Thus Mingle For Us The Adulterate Immortality Which We Alone Are Permitted Here To Enjoy. Voluptuous Raptures, Could We Prolong These At Pleasure, Would Dissipate And Dissolve Us. A Sip Is The Most That Mortals Are Permitted From Any Goblet Of Delight.