Habit Is A Second Nature, And What

Social Life Is Filled With Doubts And Vain Aspirings; Solitude, When The Imagination Is Dethroned, Is Turned To Weariness And Ennui.

The Truth Is, We Never Make For Others The Allowance We Make For Ourselves; And We Should Deny Even Our Own Words, Could We Hear Them Spoken By Another.

Strange The Affection Which Clings To Inanimate Objects - Objects Which Cannot Even Know Our Love! But It Is Not Return That Constitutes The Strength Of An Attachment.

We Are Rarely Wrong When We Act From Impulse.

There Are Words To Paint The Misery Of Love, But None To Paint Its Happiness.