Jealousy Ought To Be Tragic, To Save

The Truth Is, We Like To Talk Over Our Disasters, Because They Are Ours; And Others Like To Listen, Because They Are Not Theirs.

We Would Liken Music To Aladdin's Lamp — Worthless In Itself, Not So For The Spirits Which Obey Its Call. We Love It For The Buried Hopes, The Garnered Memories, The Tender Feelings, It Can Summon With A Touch.

Politeness, However, Acts The Lady's Maid To Our Thoughts; And They Are Washed, Dressed, Curled, Rouged, And Perfumed, Before They Are Presented To The Public.

Oh, Only Those Whose Souls Have Felt This One Idolatry Can Tell How Precious Is The Slightest Thing Affection Gives And Hallows.

There Is No Existence So Content As That Whose Present Is Engrossed By Employment, And Whose Future Is Filled By Some Strong Hope, The Truth Of Which Is Never Proved. Toil And Illusion Are The Only Secrets To Make Life Tolerable.