The Greeks said grandly in their tragic phrase, ''Let no one be called happy till his death;'' to which I would add, ''Let no one, till his death be called unhappy.''
A good neighbor sometimes cuts your morning up to mince-meat of the very smallest talk, then helps to sugar her bohea at night with your reputation.
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!
The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last; and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.
We all have known good critics, who have stamped out poet's hopes; Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state; Good patriots, who, for a theory, risked a cause; Good kings, who disemboweled for a tax; Good Popes, who brought all good to jeopardy; Good Christians, who sat still in easy-chairs; And damned the general world for standing up. Now, may the good God pardon all good men!
Hurt a fly! He would not for the world: he's pitiful to flies even. ''Sing,'' says he, ''and tease me still, if that's your way, poor insect.''
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty, and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
Let no one till his death be called unhappy. Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
The works of women are symbolical. We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, to put on when you're weary -- or a stool. To stumble over and vex you... ''curse that stool!'' Or else at best, a cushion, where you lean and sleep, and dream of something we are not, but would be for your sake. Alas, alas! This hurts most, this... that, after all, we are paid the worth of our work, perhaps.