I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one’s partners in the waltz of this world –not much remembered when the ball is over.
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- I have always laid it down as a maxim –and found it justified by experience –that a man and a woman make far better friendships than can exist between two of the same sex –but then with the condition that they never have made or are to make love to each other.
- Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, and yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
- But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
- Lovers may be — and indeed generally are — enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
- Here lies interred in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days — whatever there may be for the dust — the thirty-third year of an ill-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into a lethargy, and expired, January 22d, 1821, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence.
- When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning — how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.