Sure my love is all crostLike a bud in the frostAnd there's no use at all in my going to bed,For 't is dhrames and not slape that comes into my head!

When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can.

For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear.

There's luck in odd numbers.

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.

The neck on which diamonds might have worthily sparkled, will look less tempting when the biting winter has hung icicles there for gems.

Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs.

A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping.

Where's the snow That fell the year that's fled--where's the snow?

Circumstances are the rulers of the weak they are but the instruments of the wise.

How many chapters have been written about love verses - and how many more might be written! - might, would, could, should, or ought to be written! - I will venture to say, will be written!

What is wine? It is the grape present in another form its essence is there, though the fruit which produced it grew thousands of miles away, and perished years ago. So the object of many a tender thought may be spiritually present, in defiance of space - and fond recollections cherished in defiance of time.

Too little is it considered, while we gaze on aristocratic beauty, how much good food, soft lying, warm wrapping, ease of mind, have to do with the attractions which command our admiration.