You May Impose Silence Upon Me, But

Gossiping Is The Plague Of Little Towns.

... Love Is Too Delicate A Flower To Rise Again When One Has Trampled It Under Foot.

The Smoke Of Glory Is Not Worth The Smoke Of A Pipe.

... The Progress Of The Language Has Caused Us To Lose Many Old Treasures. It Is Thus With All Progress, And One Must Make The Best Of It.

Time Is Always Wanting To Me, And I Cannot Meet With A Single Day When I Am Nut Hurried Along, Driven To By Wits'-end By Urgent Work, Business To Attent Do Or Some Service To Render.