'Tis woman's whole existence. Byron. But a 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. 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; Bailey's "Festus." Thou hast lost the love of a faithful heart, Things whose deep worth we value not 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, Bulwer. Talk not of wasted affection! Tennyson. Affection never was wasted. 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, It can twine to itself, and make closely its own. Moore. The greatest miracle of love is the cure of coquetry. La Rochefoucauld. No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, 'Tis love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of love ; Moore. That even to birds and beasts, the tender art of pleasing teaches. One moment may with bliss. repay Unnumbered hours of pain. Absence not long enough to root out quite All love, increases love at second sight. Campbell. May. Love reckons hours for months, and days for years, And every little absence is an age. Tell me no more Dryden. Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain There's not an hour Mrs. Hemans. Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee; Procter. |