The Blessings Of Matrimony, Like Those Of

A Woman's Fame Is The Tomb Of Her Happiness.

How Disappointment Tracks The Steps Of Hope.

In Sad Truth, Half Our Forebodings Of Our Neighbors Are But Our Own Wishes, Which We Are Ashamed To Utter In Any Other Form.

Youth, Balancing Itself Upon Hope, Is Forever In Extremes: Its Expectations Are Continually Aroused Only To Be Baffled, And Disappointment, Like A Summer Shower, Is Violent In Proportion To Its Brevity.

There Is No Wretchedness Like Self-reproach.