The Pure In Heart Are Slow To

Lachrymal Counsellors, With One Foot In The Cave Of Despair, And The Other Invading The Peace Of Their Friends, Are The Paralyzers Of Action, The Pests Of Society, And The Subtlest Homicides In The World; They Poison With A Tear; And Convey A Dagger To The Heart While They Press You To Their Bosoms.

Compulsion Hardly Restores Right; Love Yields All Things.

The Mob Is A Sort Of Bear; While Your Ring Is Through Its Nose, It Will Even Dance Under Your Cudgel; But Should The Ring Slip, And You Lose Your Hold, The Brute Will Turn And Rend You.

The Perfection Of Outward Loveliness Is The Soul Shining Through Its Crystalline Covering.

Nobility, Without Virtue, Is A Fine Setting Without A Gem