There's No Credit In Not Doing What

The Music Throbbed In A Voice Of Singular And Delicate Power; The Air Was Resonant With Melody, Love And Pain. The Meanest Italian In The Gallery Far Up Beneath The Ceiling, The Most Exalted Of The Land In The Boxes And The Stalls, Leaned Indulgently Forward, To Be Swept By This Sweet Storm Of Song.

Love Knows Not Distance; It Hath No Continent; Its Eyes Are For The Stars, Its Feet For The Swords; It Continueth, Though An Army Lay Waste The Pasture; It Comforteth When There Are No Medicines; It Hath The Relish Of Manna; And By It Do Men Live In The Desert.

She Belongs To A Race Of Delightful Women, Who Never Do Any Harm, Whom Everybody Calls Good, And Who Are Very Severe On Those Who Do Not Pretend To Be Good.

There Is No Influence Like The Influence Of Habit.

Every Man Should Have Laws Of His Own, I Should Think; Commandments Of His Own, For Every Man Has A Different Set Of Circumstances Wherein To Work - Or Worry.