How Some They Have Died, And Some

I Am, In Plainer Words, A Bundle Of Prejudices - Made Up Of Likings And Dislikings.

I Grow Ominously Tired Of Official Confinement. Thirty Years Have I Served The Philistines, And My Neck Is Not Subdued To The Yoke. You Don't Know How Wearisome It Is To Breathe The Air Of Four Pent Walls Without Relief Day After Day, All The Golden Hours Of The Day Between Ten And Four Without Ease Or Interposition ... These Pestilential Clerk-faces Always In One's Dish. O For A Few Years Between The Grave And The Desk!

There Is Not In The Wide World A Valley So Sweet As That Vale In Whose Bosom The Bright Waters Meet.

We Were Happier When We Were Poorer, But We Were Also Younger.

My Only Books Were Woman's Looks,- And Folly 's All They 've Taught Me.