Our First And Last Love Is Self-love.

Sorrow Is Never More Sorrowful Than When It Jests At Its Own Misery.

Ambition, In One Respect, Is Like A Singer's Voice; Pitched At Too High A Key, It Breaks And Comes To Nothing.

God, We Are Told, Looked Upon The World After He Had Created It And Pronounced It Good; But Ascetic Pietists, In Their Wisdom, Cast Their Eyes Over It, And Substantially Pronounce It A Dead Failure, A Miserable Production, A Poor Concern.

In One Important Respect A Man Is Fortunate In Being Poor. His Responsibility To God Is So Much The Less

Constant Companionship Is Not Enjoyable, Any More Than Constant Eating. We Sit Too Long At The Table Of Friendship, When We Outsit Our Appetites For Each Other's Thoughts.