It Is An Old Prerogative Of Kings

The American Woman Is A Monstrosity.

Prowling About The Rooms, Sitting Down, Getting Up, Stirring The Fire, Looking Out The Window, Teasing My Hair, Sitting Down To Write, Writing Nothing, Writing Something And Tearing It Up...

He Knew Enough Of The World To Know That There Is Nothing In It Better Than The Faithful Service Of The Heart.

I Have Had My Share Of Sorrows-more Than The Common Lot, Perhaps, But I Have Borne Them Ill. I Have Broken Where I Should Have Bent; And Have Mused And Brooded, When My Spirit Should Have Mixed With All God's Great Creation.

Send Forth The Child And Childish Man Together, And Blush For The Pride That Libels Our Own Old Happy State, And Gives Its Title To An Ugly And Distorted Image.