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The most beautiful may be the most admired and caressed, but they are not always the most esteemed and loved.

Oh, richly fell the flaxen hair

Over the maiden's shoulders fair;
On every feature of her face
Sat radiant modesty and grace;

Her tender eyes were mild and bright,
And through her robes of shadowy white
The delicate outline of her form

Shone like an iris through a storm.

Dr. Mackay.

LOVE.

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MAN's love is of his life a thing apart;

'Tis woman's whole existence.

Byron.

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the establishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection, and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless, for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.

Irving.

The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love;
The taint of earth, the odor of the skies is in it.

Bailey's "Festus."

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Thou hast lost the love of a faithful heart,
And the light of a faithful eye-

Things whose deep worth we value not
Till they're past for ever by.

Mrs. S. P. Smith.

A man of sense may love like a madman, but never like a fool.

La Rochefoucauld.

Persons in the higher ranks of society, so exposed to ennui, are either rendered totally incapable of real love, or they love far more intensely than those in a lower station.

'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.

Bulwer.

Tennyson.

Affection never was wasted.

Talk not of wasted affection!
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning
Back to their springs like the rain, shall fill them full of

refreshing.

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the

fountain.

Longfellow.

The heart, like a tendril accustomed to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine to itself, and make closely its own.

Moore.

The greatest miracle of love is the cure of coquetry. La Rochefoucauld.

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