I Am Sorry I Have

Yet Reason Frowns In War's Unequal Game, Where Wasted Nations Raise A Single Name; And Mortgag'd States Their Grandsire's Wreaths Regret, From Age To Age In Everlasting Debt; Wreaths Which At Last The Dear-bought Right Convey To Rust On Medals, Or On Stones Decay.

There Is Always Something A Woman Will Prefer To The Truth.

More Knowledge May Be Gained Of A Man's Real Character By A Short Conversation With One Of His Servants Than From A Formal And Studied Narrative, Begun With His Pedigree And Ended With His Funeral.

The Safe And General Antidote Against Sorrow Is Employment.

There Is Something In Obstinacy Which Differs From Every Other Passion. Whenever It Fails, It Never Recovers, But Either Breaks Like Iron, Or Crumbles Sulkily Away, Like A Fractured Arch. Most Other Passions Have Their Periods Of Fatigue And Rest, Their Sufferings And Their Cure; But Obstinacy Has No Resource, And The First Wound Is Mortal.