The More Sensible A Woman Is, Supposing

Nature, At All Events, Humanly Speaking, Is Manifestly Very Fond Of Color; For She Has Made Nothing Without It. Her Skies Are Blue; Her Fields, Green; Her Waters Vary With Her Skies; Her Animals, Vegetables, Minerals, Are All Colored. She Paints A Great Any Of Them In Apparently Superfluous Hues, As If To Show The Dullest Eye How She Loves Color.

A Pleasure So Exquisite As Almost To Amount To Pain.

Affection, Like Melancholy, Magnifies Trifles; But The Magnifying Of The One Is Like Looking Through A Telescope At Heavenly Objects; That Of The Other, Like Enlarging Monsters With A Microscope.

Wit Is The Clash And Reconcilement Of Incongruities; The Meeting Of Extremes Round A Corner.

The Fish Is Swift, Small-needing, Vague Yet Clear, A Cold, Sweet, Silver Life, Wrapped In Round Waves.