A Clear Fire, A Clean Hearth, And

I Hate The Man Who Eats Without Knowing What He’s Eating. I Doubt His Taste In More Important Things.

The Man Must Have A Rare Recipe For Melancholy, Who Can Be Dull In Fleet Street.

When Twilight Dews Are Falling Soft Upon The Rosy Sea, Love, I Watch The Star Whose Beam So Oft Has Lighted Me To Thee, Love.

Every Commonplace Or Trite Observation Is Not A Truism.

Half As Sober As A Judge.