It Is A Truth Universally Acknowledged, That

Oh! Write, Write. Finish It At Once. Let There Be An End Of This Suspense. Fix, Commit, Condemn Yourself.

There Is Something In The Eloquence Of The Pulpit, When It Is Really Eloquence, Which Is Entitled To The Highest Praise And Honour. The Preacher Who Can Touch And Affect Such An Heterogeneous Mass Of Hearers, On Subjects Limited, And Long Worn Thread-bare In All Common Hands; Who Can Say Any Thing New Or Striking, Any Thing That Rouses The Attention, Without Offending The Taste, Or Wearing Out The Feelings Of His Hearers, Is A Man Whom One Could Not (in His Public Capacity) Honour Enough.

Elinor Could Sit Still No Longer. She Almost Ran Out Of The Room, And As Soon As The Door Was Closed, Burst Into Tears Of Joy, Which At First She Thought Would Never Cease.

Elizabeth Had Never Been More At A Loss To Make Her Feelings Appear What They Were Not. It Was Necessary To Laugh, When She Would Rather Have Cried.

Fine Dancing, I Believe, Like Virtue, Must Be Its Own Reward.