I am past thirty, and three parts iced over.

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine.

Sanity - that is the great virtue of the ancient literature; the want of that is the great defect of the modern, in spite of its variety and power.

How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again - thou hearest? Eternal passion! Eternal pain!

'And how are you?', said Winnie-the-Pooh. (...) 'Not very how', he said. 'I don't seem to have felt at all how for a long time.'

The denunciation of the young is a necessary part of the hygiene of older people, and greatly assists in the circulation of their blood.

Is not old wine wholesomest, old pippins toothsomest, old wood burn brightest, old linen wash whitest? Old soldiers, sweethearts, are surest, and old lovers ar…