My Heart Is Its Own Grave!

We Are Ourselves Our Happiness.

How Beautiful, How Buoyant, And Glad Is Morning!

Jealousy Ought To Be Tragic, To Save It From Being Ridiculous.

A Sealed Book, At Whose Contents We Tremble.

Politeness, However, Acts The Lady's Maid To Our Thoughts; And They Are Washed, Dressed, Curled, Rouged, And Perfumed, Before They Are Presented To The Public.