At The Point When Affection Is Not

If A Pretty Woman Only Knew How Anger Improved Her Beauty! Her Complexion Needs No Other Paint Than Indignation.

Our Treasures Trifles Seem, And All Our Life Is Dreaming, And The Dreams Themselves Are Dreams.

Dreams Are Rough Copies Of The Waking Soul Yet Uncorrected Of The Higher Will, So That Men Sometimes In Their Dreams Confess An Unsuspected, Or Forgotten, Self; -since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, Are Akin In Missing Each That Salutory Rein Of Reason, And The Grinding Will Of Man.

To The King, One Must Give His Possessions And His Life; But Honour Is A Possession Of Soul, And The Soul Is Only God's.

In This Treacherous World Nothing Is The Truth Nor A Lie. Everything Depends On The Color Of The Crystal Through Which One Sees It