All Sweeping Assertions Are Erroneous.

How Beautiful, How Buoyant, And Glad Is Morning!

Every Other Species Of Talent Carries With It Its Eternity; We Enjoy The Work Of The Poet, The Painter, The Sculptor, Only As Thousands Will Do After Us; But The Actor - His Memory Is With His Generation, And That Passes Away.

Jealousy Ought To Be Tragic, To Save It From Being Ridiculous.

Nothing But Love Can Answer To Love; No Affection, No Kindness, No Care, Can Supply Its Place: It Is Its Own Sweet Want.

Affection Exaggerates Its Own Offenses.