The World Loves A Spice Of Wickedness.

Ah, The Souls Of Those That Die Are But Sunbeams Lifted Higher.

We See But Dimly Through The Mists And Vapors; Amid These Earthly Damps What Seem To Us But Sad, Funereal Tapers May Be Heaven's Distant Lamps.

If A Woman Shows Too Often The Medusa's Head, She Must Not Be Astonished If Her Lover Is Turned Into Stone.

The Greatest Grace Of A Gift, Perhaps, Is That It Anticipates And Admits Of No Return.

Let Us Be Merciful As Well As Just.