There Is No Wretchedness Like Self-reproach.

In Sad Truth, Half Our Forebodings Of Our Neighbors Are But Our Own Wishes, Which We Are Ashamed To Utter In Any Other Form.

The Truth Is, We Never Make For Others The Allowance We Make For Ourselves; And We Should Deny Even Our Own Words, Could We Hear Them Spoken By Another.

Habit Is Our Idea Of Eternity.

Youth, Balancing Itself Upon Hope, Is Forever In Extremes: Its Expectations Are Continually Aroused Only To Be Baffled, And Disappointment, Like A Summer Shower, Is Violent In Proportion To Its Brevity.

We Might Have Been - These Are But Common Words, And Yet They Make The Sum Of Life's Bewailing.