O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

The more haste, ever the worst speed.

The light upon her face Shines from the windows of another world. Saints only have such faces.

So lonely 'twas that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

And these vicissitudes come best in youth, For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won experience which is deem'd so weighty.

I think every woman is entitled to a middle husband she can forget.

A goverment that is big enough to give you all you want is big enough to take it all away.

I don't have big anxieties. I wish I did. I'd be much more interesting.

Attitudes are more important than facts.

A poor report card has one good thing in its favor: at least you know the student is not cheating.

Friendship is neither a formality nor a mode: it is rather a life.

It is sometimes expedient to forget who we are.

Nimbly they seized and secreted their prey, Alive and wriggling in the elastic net, Which Nature hung beneath their grasping beaks; Till, swoln, with captures, the unwieldy burden Clogg'd their slow flight, as heavily to land, These mighty hunters of the deep return'd. There on the cragged cliffs they perch'd at ease, Gorging their hapless victims one by one; Then full and weary, side by side, they slept, Till evening roused them to the chase again.

You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all of the time.

All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking.

Every little thing counts in a crisis.

Tradition does not mean that the living are dead, but that the dead are living.

I took the wren's nest;-- Heaven forgive me! Its merry architects so small Had scarcely finished their wee hall, That empty still, and nest and fair, Hung idly in the summer air.