Men, In General, Are A Sort Of

I Care For Myself. The More Solitary, The More Friendless, The More Unsustained I Am, The More I Will Respect Myself.

It Is One Of My Faults, That Though My Tongue Is Sometimes Prompt Enough At An Answer, There Are Times When It Sadly Fails Me In Framing An Excuse; And Always The Lapse Occurs At Some Crisis, When A Facile Word Or Plausible Pretext Is Specially Wanted To Get Me Out Of Painful Embarrassment.

My Rest Might Have Been Blissful Enough, Only A Sad Heart Broke It.

Of Late Years An Abundant Shower Of Curates Has Fallen Upon The North Of England.

Daydreams Are The Delusions Of The Devil.