You Are My Peace, My Solace, My

Oh, I May Be Devout, But I Am Human All The Same.

Debts Are Nowadays Like Children Begot With Pleasure, But Brought Forth In Pain.

The Maturing Process Of Becoming A Writer Is Akin To That Of A Harlot. First You Do It For Love, Then For A Few Friends, And Finally Only For Money.

The World, Dear Agnes, Is A Strange Affair.

The More We Love Our Friends, The Less We Flatter Them; It Is By Excusing Nothing That Pure Love Shows Itself.