Neither Birth Nor Sex Forms A Limit

Remorse Is The Poison Of Life.

I Only Want An Easy Mind, Sir; Not Crushed By Crowded Obligations.

It Seems To Me, Monsieur, That There Is Nothing More Galling In Great Physical Misfortunes Than To Be Compelled To Make All Those About Us Share In Our Sufferings. The Ills Of The Soul One Can Hide, But Those Which Attack The Body And Destroy The Faculties Cannot Be Concealed.

We Wove A Web In Childhood, A Web Of Sunny Air; We Dug A Spring In Infancy Of Water Pure And Fair; We Sowed In Youth A Mustard Seed, We Cut An Almond Rod; We Are Now Grown Up To Riper Age— Are They Withered In The Sod?

As Much Good-will May Be Conveyed In One Hearty Word As In Many.