I Can Safely Say, That The Happiest

Pity Is For This Life, Pity Is The Worm Inside The Meat, Pity Is The Meat, Pity Is The Shaking Pencil, Pity Is The Shaking Voice-- Not Enough Money, Not Enough Love--pity For All Of Us--it Is Our Grace, Walking Down The Ramp Or On The Moving Sidewalk, Sitting In A Chair, Reading The Paper, Pity, Turning A Leaf To The Light, Arranging A Thorn.

They Were Within Twenty Yards Of Each Other, And So Abrupt Was His Appearance, That It Was Impossible To Avoid His Sight. Their Eyes Instantly Met, And The Cheeks Of Each Were Overspread With The Deepest Blush. He Absolutely Started, And For A Moment Seemed Immoveable From Surprise; But Shortly Recovering Himself, Advanced Towards The Party, And Spoke To Elizabeth, If Not In Terms Of Perfect Composure, At Least Of Perfect Civility.

There Is Something In The Eloquence Of The Pulpit, When It Is Really Eloquence, Which Is Entitled To The Highest Praise And Honour. The Preacher Who Can Touch And Affect Such An Heterogeneous Mass Of Hearers, On Subjects Limited, And Long Worn Thread-bare In All Common Hands; Who Can Say Any Thing New Or Striking, Any Thing That Rouses The Attention, Without Offending The Taste, Or Wearing Out The Feelings Of His Hearers, Is A Man Whom One Could Not (in His Public Capacity) Honour Enough.

The Stream Is As Good As At First; The Little Rubbish It Collects In The Turnings Is Easily Moved Away.

There Are Certainly Not So Many Men Of Large Fortune In The World, As There Are Pretty Women To Deserve Them.