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To have joy one must share it. Happiness was born a twin.

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I have always believed that all things depended upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves.

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He who is only just is cruel. Who on earth could live were all judged justly?

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For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.

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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.

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The Angels were all singing out of tune, and hoarse with having little else to do, excepting to wind up the sun and moon or curb a runaway young star or two.

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Ready money is Aladdin's lamp.

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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend.

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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

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What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.

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When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.

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One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other.

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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

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Lovers may be - and indeed generally are - enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.

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When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning - how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.

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A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.

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Oh Time! the beautifier of the dead, adorer of the ruin, comforter and only healer when the heart hath bled... Time, the avenger!

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The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.

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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad.

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