Nothing Dies So Hard, Or Rallies So

There Is Not On Earth So Base A Knave As The Man Who Wins The Love Of A Woman When He Knows That He Cannot Or Ought Not To Requite It.

It Is A Bitter Thought To An Avaricious Spirit That By And By All These Accumulations Must Be Left Behind. We Can Only Carry Away From This World The Flavor Of Our Good Or Evil Deeds.

The One Great Poem Of New England Is Her Sunday.

Love Cannot Endure Indifference. It Needs To Be Wanted. Like A Lamp, It Needs To Be Fed Out Of The Oil Of Another's Heart, Or Its Flame Burns Low.

It Is Not Work That Kills Men; It Is Worry. Worry Is Rust Upon The Blade.